Winter Bourne
by TealMoon
Summary: Continuation of Bourne Ultimatum: The plot holes and things unsaid intrigued me. Jason owes a debt to Nicky. Trying to help her has exposed a threat by Blackbriar who wants them both.
1. River's Edge

Winter Bourne

The average night time winter temperature in New York City is twenty-nine degrees Farenheight. The average wind speed, a mere ten miles an hour. Not extra-ordinary in themselves, combined they create a wind chill of 16 degrees, cold enough to kill.

Jason Bourne, clothes heavy with frigid water and stinking of the East River, was limping toward a row of warehouses. The cold had numbed his ears and nose and made his feet ache. It was only when he stopped moving that he realized that he was no longer shivering. Through the fog slowing his thoughts, the fact driven calculator built into in his brain warned him that the initial stage of hypothermia had set in. He needed to get warm _now_.

A third check of the surroundings and Jason made his choice. The two story brick warehouse ahead of him had a combination of age, meager lightening and air of decrepitude that told him it was an easier target for a break-in than its more modern neighbors. Forcing his way through a rusted iron link fence, he slid through the shadows and up to the door. Since he'd crawled out of the river, he'd walked with his right hand thrust into his armpit to warm his numb fingers.

A police cruiser slowed to sweep a light across the building as Jason hurried inside, the locks defeated. He waited with his back to the door, straining to hear if a cruiser door opened. Nothing. The police had moved on.

He nodded to himself – it was just a routine patrol. The cops hadn't been looking for him. It had been hellish, but he'd used every ounce of will to force himself far enough down river to outstrip any immediate search. Now he was paying the price. His core body temperature was dangerously low, and his body ached with a compilation of days of abuse. Jason knew his ability to think clearly was being affected by the cold. Knew he'd have to think things through twice to make sure he wasn't making mistakes.

Getting out of the wind and into shelter had been the first step. He already felt warmer. Now he made a survey of the front office, using the street lights to find his way around. Turning on a light where there were windows would be asking for trouble. At least his eyes were already adjusted to the dark. He did a fast tour of the warehouse attached to the office. It was filled wall to wall with boxes of spatulas, paper towel holders and a variety of other plastic junk. Useless.

He didn't find any surprises. Some of the tension holding his shoulders rigid eased. Jason closed the door to a windowless back room and snapped on the lights. He found the thermostat and cranked it up. Two beat-up desks filled most of the space with a kitchenette at the back wall. The best find was a shower squeezed into one corner. Jason peeled off his coat, kicked off his shoes. It was blissful to pull off the rest of his sodden clothes and let the hot water chase away the cold. When the hot water ran out, Jason used paper towels to pat himself dry. He didn't want to get blood on the cloth towels – far too noticeable. The cheap first-aid kit he found wasn't of much use, but more paper towels and bleach from the bathroom, a needle and thread, and scotch tape from the desk all helped with the external injuries. The honey was a real find, and he smeared it liberally on the less serious wounds. The blood in the toilet worried him; he'd done some serious damage to his internal organs. Jason swallowed his next to last codeine tablets, knowing that he was simply postponing the payment for the abuse he'd suffered these past few days.

Stepping out of the steam-filled bathroom, he found a pink woman's sweater, made cheerful with embroidered kittens, draped over a desk chair. It was large enough for Jason to wear. Scratchy, but better than nothing. The rest of the kitchenette was stocked entirely with candy, coffee and pastries. Which helped explain the size of the sweater. Wrapping both hands around a hot instant coffee loaded with sugar, Jason drank it down with efficient swallows, ignoring the taste. He ate two pastries with the same determination to get a quickly digestible energy source into his body.

Despite his exhaustion, Jason forced himself to wash and rinse out his wet clothes to get the smell of the river out of them. He needed to make sure that when he left here, nothing about his appearance would raise suspicion. He draped the pieces over the old-fashioned radiators to dry.

Grabbing bubble wrap from the warehouse and newspapers from the bottom of a messy stack, he made a nest near one of the radiators. Jason set the alarm on his watch to wake him in four hours, just after dawn. The watch was the most expensive thing he owned and worth every euro he'd paid for it. Despite everything he'd been through, including the unscheduled swim, it was working just fine. Unlike him.

Jason needed to sleep, needed to heal. Most of all, he needed to get out of New York City. He'd come here for answers, and now he had them, as well as a fragile hold of memories from another life. The worst of it – the absolute worst - was knowing that no one had forced him. At the end, he had taken that first, irreversible step himself. Hirsch may have put the gun in his hand, but he'd pulled the trigger. He'd done it because Hirsch had demanded blind trust, all in the name of protecting Americans. Yes, Jason had trusted his handlers and they'd used that trust to re-create him as a conscienceless walking weapon.

Waiting for the codeine to kick in, Jason turned his thoughts away from his past. He'd completed his mission and survived. He had a chance now to pay back a debt. Nicky had thrown away her own life and her future to help him. Now she was out there alone and he needed to find her.


	2. The Blame Game

**Winter Bourne**

Chapter Two

_Three weeks later_

Pamela Landy eyed the plate of donuts on the conference table. The chocolate donut, its sugary glaze melting onto the plate made her mouth water. Pamela refused to succumb to its lure and took another sip of her coffee. The milk was enough of an indulgence. She knew perfectly well that the craving was a reflection of depression. And why wouldn't she feel depressed? She'd informed on a CIA deep cover operation. Despite federal mandates providing protection for whistleblowers, she was hanging onto to her position at the CIA by her fingernails.

She'd been removed from her job, lost her people, and her security clearance had been busted down to top secret, but she had a desk in CIA headquarters at Langley. Quite an accomplishment for someone in her position.

It annoyed her to know that the CIA was clearing house while she sat without access to any information from Blackbriar. At least she had the satisfaction of seeing the very public removal of Ezra Kramer and his pal Vosen. The rest of the Blackbriar staff were being de-briefed, packed up and put out into virtual Siberia until the Agency determined what to do with them.

Pamela was using every favor owed to stay where she might secure some justice for David Webb, more recently known as Jason Bourne, and for Nicky Parsons, another agent caught between Treadstone and treason. At least one immediate benefit of her testimony to Congress was that the CIA had canceled the kill orders on Jason and Nicky. Nicky would have to face charges for treason and conspiracy to commit treason. Pamela was optimistic that these charges would be mitigated with a pardon at the end of the road.

The charges against Jason started where Nicky's left off. Forgetting crimes committed against other nations, he was wanted for treason, murder, attempted murder, espionage, conspiracy, assault, multiple counts of grand theft larceny, breaking and entering, and destruction of government property. The list of lesser crimes was longer. At least, now there was a chance Jason wouldn't get shot on sight.

Two things could change Jason's future, and Pamela kept working them both. Her tentative planning was interrupted when the conference room door was shoved open.

Nathan Basnight, acting deputy director, overseeing the fallout from Blackbriar, sank his bulk into the chair at the head of the table. Eight other people, people Pamela didn't know and hadn't been introduced to, were already seated. She'd made no effort to introduce herself or to ask names. It wasn't that kind of a meeting. At least she'd been able to get Tom Conti, her former assistance, to provide back up.

"All right, let's get started." Basnight rapped the table with his knuckles, as if calling unruly children to order. The low conversations died away.

_Ass_. Pamela kept her eyes down at the table, pretending to read the files she'd already memorized.

"Let's not waste time repeating the sequence of events that resulted in a black ops program being exposed to public scrutiny."

Pamela didn't allow herself to react visibly. Basnight's tone of disapproval made his position clear. Apparently, he thought Blackbriar, despite the clear evidence of the abuse associated with it, should have remained a secret.

"We're here on a fact finding mission to discuss what went wrong to insure that the next time the Agency runs into this problem that we have a better model to follow. We want no repeats of the mistakes that were made," Basnight said.

Alarm bells went off inside Pamela's mind. It was so carefully phrased that she couldn't be sure what he problem he was talking about. She knew what that meant. The real purpose of this meeting was to stick all the blame on a plausible scapegoat. Pamela had no intention of allowing Basnight, or anyone, to make her that scapegoat. _Let__ the games__ begin_. She pulled a compact voice recorder from her purse, slapped it onto the table, and turned it on with a loud click.

"Sir, the meaning of 'what went wrong' and 'problem' wasn't at all clear," Pamela said. "Did you mean how a group of rogue senior agents could get away with establishing and maintaining an illegal training program that included torture and brainwashing for over six years? Or how they then used the resultant team of assassins to further their personal agendas by any means at their disposal up to and including the unauthorized murder of US citizens? These murders included loyal agents of this Agency and were ordered in order to hide their traitorous actions and protect their jobs?" Pamela raised her voice to override Basnight as he tried to interrupt her.

"Turn that damn thing off!" Basnight's mouth pinched and his eyes got mean.

The rest of the room was silent. Pamela assessed the others and knew from the reactions that she scored some serious points. "Here's the letter from Director Sloane authorizing this recording,"

Pamela laid a copy of the letter on the polished wood table and pushed it toward him. Sloane was a full three ranks above Basnight, and a bastard par excellence. Basnight stared at the letter, but backed down. His nostrils flared as if he had trouble controlling his temper.

_Good_.

"Where are we starting with the review, sir? I mean, are we starting with Treadstone? Or just looking at Blackbriar?" Tom asked from behind Pamela.

"We're examining three distinct events." Basnight ignored Pamela's statement and Tom's question. "One, the failure to capture Jason Bourne after his reemergence in Berlin three months ago. Two, the failure to detect Nathaniel Daniel's disaffection in time enough to prevent his treason. And three, the failure to detect that agent Nicolette Parsons had become a mole for Jason Bourne."

Pamela nodded. Yes, she'd been right. This careful selection of events were a clear signal that Basnight's goal was to discredit her. Pinning the blame on her for these failures would force her remaining supporters to abandon her, and she'd get her fired outright – not for whistle blowing - but for incompetency. Well, she'd always liked a good fight, or she'd never have made it this far. She took a deep breath and re-engaged.

"Let's begin with correcting the most egregious assumption. Nicolette Parsons a mole for Jason Bourne?" Pamela snorted. "In Berlin, Nicky was terrified of him, and was very vocal about wanting Bourne dead. I took her concerns into account when I agreed to post snipers in Alexanderplatz Square. Then Bourne kidnapped, assaulted and interrogated her with a gun to her head. Nicky needed medical treatment for shock after we found her." Pamela slid another file from the pile and shoved it toward Basnight. "Here's the after mission reports. Please note that none of the debriefers or Nicky's therapist imagined that she would ever help Bourne."

Basnight ignored the file. Instead he gave her a triumphant smile. "If that's true, Pam, please explain why she gave Vosen the wrong code-in in Madrid? Why did she help Bourne escape? Why did she help him find Daniels?"

"No one can explain it. We don't know what happened. Bourne might have kidnapped and threatened her." Pamela added, "What would you do if Jason Bourne held a gun to your head?"

"If she's so innocent, why hasn't she come in now that Bourne's in the US?" Basnight's voice rose.

"After Vosen put a kill order out on her?" Pamela let her voice rise as if the suggestion was insane. "If nothing else, Vosen is the one to blame if Nicky did side with Bourne – what options did we give her? You must have read the reports about Bourne's behavior in Tangiers, yes? He went to an extraordinary effort to save her life." Pamela raised an eyebrow. "I told Vosen it was a mistake, but he wouldn't listen. So if you want to lay blame for Nicky's behavior, blame Vosen for sheer arrogance and haste."

"This is all speculation," Basnight dismissed her words.

She turned it back on him. "Exactly. All you have is speculation. Until we can safely bring Nicky in and debrief her." Before he could speak, Pamela held up a hand. "Let me mention another fascinating failure that might have escaped your attention."

Tom placed the stack of newspaper clippings into her waiting hand. She passed copies out as she spoke. "Why did no one in the entire Blackbriar organization, including Agent Vosen, notice a three part article printed in a major British newspaper about Treadstone? Please notice the article's dates. And notice too the prominent placement of the name 'Jason Bourne', along with photographs from his passport and Wanted poster."

The silence in the room this time was from shock.

Pamela smiled.


	3. Living in the Dark

**Winter Bourne**

Chapter Three: Saved from the Dark

Nicky's primary trainer had been a jovial old soul, with a cheerful grin and a twinkle in his eye. You'd never guess that he'd spent four years in a North Korean prisoner of war camp, or that he'd spent a lifetime perfecting the art of spy-craft. Out of all the advice he'd given her, he was firm about two things that she needed to remember.

"The only thing that doesn't change is change, doll. Remember that." He'd point scarred finger into her face. "And you gotta be ready for it. Remember that too."

She'd never shown it, but she'd hated the way he'd repeated this advice day after day, as if his corny platitudes were the wisdom of the ages. Despite that one quirk, he'd done an excellent job. Nicky made field rank after three years in-house. She'd been running tech and logistics support across Europe by the time she was twenty-four. Very impressive by any measure. Then Conklin had showed up on her doorstep.

The interview had changed her life.

Eight months of training and Nicky had assumed control of a special office in a Parisian suburb. The men she dealt with were also special. A single word in their file and Nicky knew what to expect. Men with blank faces and dead eyes. So controlled, so tightly wound, they confessed their thoughts with reluctance, every other sentence a considered lie as if the truth would damn them. Dark stories and dead bodies. It had all slid off her back, smooth as water without leaving a stain behind. It had never touched her, never been real, as she sat in her dusty office monitoring it all.

Jason Bourne had been the first to come to her. Never for assignments. Conklin handled Jason's missions personally. No, Jason came to her for a monthly check-up. Nicky took his blood and performed any test that Conklin demanded. She interviewed Jason and recorded his concise reports on his physical and mental condition, then sent them back to Langley. Doctors took the results and fiddled with the dosage or switched to another drug. Then some junior agent learned their job by getting the drugs to her office without getting caught.

Jason Bourne was polite. Impersonal to the point of coldness. She learned more from reading his file than she ever heard from him. The other Treadstone agents whose missions she oversaw at least pretended to be normal. Jason never bothered. He treated her as if she were just another piece of support equipment, needed for the job. Nicky spent twice as long prepping for their meetings, making his visits were as short as possible.

On the days that Bourne came in, Nicky left her high heels, flirty skirts and flimsy blouses behind. She wore navy or black in somber styles that gave an impression of professionalism. Nicky teased Castel, a little, and he let her. She'd never been tempted to push against Bourne's barriers to see what would happen. It would have been like encouraging a Doberman to think of her as prey.

During the second year, in October, the doctors demanded that all of the local agents show up every day for a solid week. The doctors were worried about the impact of a new drug on their kidney and liver function. Arranging it so that none of the agents met each other had been a logistics nightmare. These men were cautious to the point of paranoia. The cameras that recorded the activity outside the building had caught them scouting the place before each of their appointments. Bourne in particular was a problem. In the end, Nicky opened a temporary office across town.

On the positive side, after the fifth day of being on the new drug, the change in the agents had been remarkable. They'd seemed more relaxed. All of them reported fewer, less intense headaches. Nicky was wondering if she should sneak a few of the pills for herself. By the end of the test week, she was getting by on three hours of sleep and plain old Exedrin wasn't working.

She blamed the lack of sleep for what happened during Bourne's sixth interview. She'd dropped a hypodermic. Going to the med kit for another one, she'd tripped over an electric cord in her new shoes. In an attempt to recover her balance, she'd wind-milled her arms and staggered forward two steps. Off-balance, she'd fallen into an office chair. The chair was on rollers. Propelled across the tiled floor, it had crashed and rebounded against a tall cabinet, dumping Nicky unto the floor.

Bourne, a bright blue elastic tied around one bicep, watched from his chair, an interested expression softening his usual expression.

Nicky wrenched off the offending shoe and flung it at the wall. It ricocheted to land in the trash. It was too much. "Damn all shoes!"

Bourne laughed. She was stunned at the transformation in his face. Perhaps it was a glimpse of the man he had been? She couldn't keep from smiling back at him. When she'd slipped her hand into his as he helped her up, she'd felt a thrill chase through her. She'd met his eyes and that simple, silly moment had changed her life.

Changed both of their lives.

A call from Conklin had changed her life again. His prized assassin had disappeared, leaving the target alive. Two weeks of silent dread had gone by until another call from Conklin had let her know that Jason was alive. Except now Jason was a target himself. As was the woman he was now traveling with, a German drifter called Marie Helena Kreutz.

Trained too well to allow anyone to know what it did to her, Nicky had arranged for Castel to ambush Jason. Jason had killed Castel, killed the Professor, and then returned to Paris for Conklin.

She'd had nightmares ever since the final night in her substation. She relived Conklin's angry presence, his impatience with her. The fear that set in as the alarms started going off, the systems and lights failing. Then Jason had appeared, materializing out of the shadows.

That look.

A cold, dispassionate assessment that had summed her up and dismissed her as inconsequential.

Nicky had known then. Believed every word. The Jason Bourne she'd known was gone. A stranger inhabited that familiar body. All her anger at his desertion, the other woman he'd found, disappeared under a wave of misery.

Unable to move, barely able to breath, she'd watched as Jason knocked Conklin out and left with a final glance at her. Nicky had shuddered as the sounds of the firefight at the door rolled over her. When she was able to move, she'd ignored Conklin, pressing herself against a window, catching a fleeting glimpse as Jason limped away, leaving her behind in darkness.

Again.

"Another coffee?" The waiter interrupted Nicky's remembrances. She checked her watch. "_Non__, merci_."

Time to move again.


	4. Interim

**Winter Bourne**

Chapter Four - "Interim"

_**Jason**_

Jason made a second sweep of the office he'd broken into to make sure he'd erased any sign that he'd ever been here. He'd twitched a sleeve of the pink sweater to make it hang straight on the chair back. It was unlikely that its owner would miss the few snacks he'd used. He stepped back. Yes, it was clean. After stuffing the last damp paper towel into a trash bag, Jason shut off the lights. He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

The compulsion to move, to get away, had pulled him out of his uneasy sleep long before his battered body had had enough rest, long before his alarm had gone off. Fighting the compulsion would make his headache, the same pounding, queasy thumper that had made so many of his days miserable, worse. Instead of fighting it, Jason used it to energize him. Every hour that passed meant that the authorities were closer to finding him. He had to get out of the area before daylight. While the dark wouldn't hide him from infrared, the CIA couldn't be everywhere, and he'd be shielded from less well-equipped observers.

When his eyes adjusted, Jason slipped out of the building. He carried the trash a mile before tossing it into a dumpster. Inside it was his wet coat. Not even putting it directly on a heater had been able to dry it. His shoes were as damp as the coat, but he couldn't walk barefoot. He'd protected his feet by putting his dry socks back on, then stepping into plastic trash bags and taping them to his ankles. A temporary measure that would work until he could replace them. Despite the cold seeping through the shoes, the cold was bearable now that the rest of his clothes were dry.

By daylight, Jason mingling with other early morning commuters at the 23rd Street subway station, warming his hands with a cup of hot tea. He'd bought travel sized toiletries from a 7-Eleven and used them in a groddy bathroom at a twenty-four hour diner to shave and spruce up. Concealer helped with the worst of the cuts and bruises on his face, neck and hands. The beat-up blue coat he was wearing had come from the lost and found box at a McDonalds. It hadn't been hard to come up with a generic description for a men's jacket. The staff didn't care when he claimed a navy jacket rather than the black one he'd said he'd lost. Now he was just another guy on his way to work.

A forty minute subway ride, a ten minute walk and Jason was standing two blocks away from his long-term rental. It was another hour before he was satisfied that the area wasn't under surveillance. The apartment was fully furnished, with a kitchenette and a washer and dryer. He'd found it on the Internet and paid the first month's rent while in Tangiers. Yesterday, before he'd called Landy, he'd stowed his luggage here and gone shopping for essential supplies.

Jason's hands were shaking from exhaustion when he hung the "Do not disturb" sign up and locked the door. The markers he'd put in place told him that no one had opened his suitcases. The seals on the food he'd bought were untouched as well. After an examination of the rest of the apartment, Jason unpacked and installed a cheap set of sensors on the windows. He secured the door with a metal bar wedged under the doorknob. He slit a hole in a window curtain, and duct-taped a wireless camera to the curtain rod to give him a view of anyone standing in front of the door. He slipped the palm-sized monitor into his pocket where he could check it anytime he needed. All of this would buy him only a few seconds warning, but it was better than doing nothing. As a last precaution, he tied a long rope ladder to the bed in the smaller bedroom. The room's single window was big enough for him to climb out, and the one most protected from any sightlines.

Now Jason felt safe enough to take care of himself. He opened the smaller suitcase with its cornucopia of drugs and medical supplies. Treadstone had taught him a lot about drugs. He'd rest here, let his abused body heal.

Delays. He hated the necessity of it. He knew what he wanted to do, what he _needed_ to do, but there were too many unknowns for him to factor into a decent plan. He needed a lever, a way to change the odds against him.

Pamela Landy might be one of those levers. He didn't give her great odds of surviving Blackbriar's fallout, but if she did – if she did, they might be able to help each other.

_Pamela_

Pamela was watching Jason Bourne's demolition of Vosen's men in the back halls of Waterloo station. Again. She wasn't the only one who had a copy looped for endless replay. She'd lost track of the number of times she'd watched it. Now she was able to break the fight into discrete steps. She'd had Tom time the intervals between each CIA operative's appearance and Jason's immediate reaction, including the causal way he'd flung Simon Ross out of harm's way. Of course, Jason had had surprise on his side, but by any measure, it was an impressive fight. The one man who could have taken Jason down with a shot to his back had hesitated. Reasonable, because Jason was grappling with his partner, and a shot would have most likely taken out both men. That hesitation had cost him. With an economy of movement, Jason had disposed of the first man, then disarmed and taken the second man down. Pamela restarted the video to watch this part of the fight again.

"What do you think of his fighting technique?" Tom asked from behind her.

On the monitor, Jason's arm raised and fell, cracking the gun against the skull of man already down. Pamela pressed the button to freeze the image.

"Efficient. Precise. Brutal."

"Brutal?" Tom sat down beside her. "I don't know. He could have killed them. He killed the guy in Tangiers. Strangled him. So why didn't Bourne kill these guys?"

"It'd be a guess, but perhaps he did it to protect Nicky? Maybe Bourne realized that any Blackbriar operative would be just like him. He wouldn't stop, so he figured that Paz wouldn't stop either." Pamela tapped the monitor. "Maybe Bourne felt that these men didn't pose any long term threat to him."

"Maybe." Tom gave her a curious look. "Why are you watching this so many times?"

Tom was smart. Loyal. She couldn't have asked for a better assistant. Yet there was something missing in the way he looked at the world. He didn't have that critical analytic ability to see past what was on the surface. "Play it again. From the beginning."

Tom restarted the fight. They watched in silence. It didn't take long.

"What does this fight tell you about Bourne?"

"That he's good at fighting."

Pamela gave him a level look. "That's it? Doesn't it raise any questions?"

Tom made a helpless gesture. "No. I mean, what questions? They were after Ross, and he stopped them. What else is there to figure out?"

She was proud of herself for not sighing or making any other obvious sign of exasperation. "Why wasn't Bourne armed? He took down two other men right before this, but he didn't take their guns. He knew that we had other people inside Waterloo station. Wouldn't it be reasonable that he'd arm himself again them?"

"I'd have definitely taken their guns."

"Me too." Pamela turned to the screen again to watch the grainy picture again. "But we're not Treadstone. How can we figure out what Bourne will do next if we can't even figure out why he did this one thing?"

"Why don't you ask Dr. Hirsch?" Tom smiled at her. "I'm sure he'd love to talk to you."

"Very funny. Though I'd love to get my hands on Blackbriar's training manual. If such a thing exists. Or at least interview the other graduates."

"Why can't -" Tom's question was cut short by the office phone. "Yes, sir. Okay, I'll tell her." He turned to Pam. "Sloane wants you in his office. Now."

Pamela smoothed her tan jacket sleeves back down over her arms, swiped at the crumbs on her skirt. "Guess this is it."

"Good luck."

"Well, Pam. Did you enjoy your meeting with Basnight?" Director Sloane asked. He pointed to a padded chair sitting at an angle near his desk.

Pamela sat down. She kept her tone dry as she answered, "The way it ended was interesting."

"Interesting? I like your style, Pam. Though you're going to be expensive to keep around."

It was so unexpected that Pamela stared at Sloane for a long moment. She wasn't being exiled to some make-work desk job? Pamela was surprised at the queer sensation in her gut, the way her heart started racing. She hadn't let herself dwell on how much it would hurt to get tossed out. Then she replayed his statement. Expensive to keep? She nodded. It was the bald truth. Her televised appearance before Congress had outed her as CIA, and destroyed the cover business in New York. Compromised every person she'd worked or spent time with for the last twenty years. She'd fallen asleep each night wondering how many of her agents she'd exposed. Then her eyes narrowed. These kind of reprieves came with a price attached. She wondered how long it would be before she found out what the price would be.

"At least you warned the New York office in time for them to sanitize it," Sloane continued. "We got all our people and equipment out before the press could find it. That was a big point in your favor."

"Thank you, sir."

"About the meeting today." Sloane changed the subject. "It was necessary for a number of reasons."

This vague explanation set Pamela's hackles up. She thought she could smell the stench of inter-agency politics. Sloane had used the meeting with Basnight to accomplish his own agenda. She kept her annoyance to herself. "It wasn't a very long meeting. Nothing was resolved."

"An interesting collection of people came to the meeting." Sloane gave her a bland smile. "And the questions, or rather, accusations that were repeated were interesting as well. Very interesting."

Pamela decided that she wasn't meant to know more. She acknowledged it with a nod.

"Tell me how you found out about the newspaper story on Treadstone," Sloane asked. "I do appreciate that you had Conti sent me a copy first."

"We needed to know how Bourne found the reporter, Simon Ross. Vosen found Ross only because he'd mentioned the word Blackbriar and a telephone screening program picked it up." Pamela shrugged. "Without any apparent personal connection to Bourne, it seemed logical to assume that it was Simon Ross had written something that had captured Bourne's attention."

Discovering Ross's series on Treadstone and on Bourne had shocked the hell out of Pamela. If it had effected her so strongly, she could only wonder what Jason had felt to see that the Bourne identity made public. What it must have felt like to see his own face staring back at him from an international newspaper. Bourne might have been planning something nasty to happen to Ross as a payback after he'd gotten what he wanted from the reporter. Or not.

"Interesting timing. Bourne showing up just when Vosen finds Ross."

"Unfortunate timing for Ross." Pamela crossed her arms. "Vosen didn't even bother to try to talk to him. Just ordered the trigger to be pulled."

The older man focused his attention on the wall behind her. Pamela waited. When he refocused on her, his face was tight with some repressed emotion. "We all fear different things. Vosen feared what Bourne and Ross might tell each other."

Inexorable, Pamela went on. "If Vosen had waited, Ross would be alive and Vosen could have used Bourne as a stalking dog to find Ross's source."

"Do you think it would have ended any differently? While interesting to speculate what would have happened if Bourne had found Daniels first, don't you think that Bourne would have still found his way to 415?"

While she might personally despised Vosen and what he'd done, she couldn't say that the outcome would have been any different. "Probably."

"What do you think Bourne will do now, Pamela?" Sloane asked. At her deliberately telegraphed look of surprise, he continued, "I'd prefer not to make any assumptions about Treadstone personnel. Particularly this man. You don't believe he's dead, do you?"

"Three days and no body?" Pamela shrugged. "My money's on Bourne being alive."

"We'll play it as if he were. Do you think he'd try to go after the rest of Blackbriar's people?"

Sloane was an expert on keeping people off-balance. Pamela had had certain expectations on the course of this conversation and leading a hunt for Bourne had played no part in it. She kept her reservations to herself and recovered. "I've read his personnel and mission files. That doesn't make me an expert. Anyway, you don't need me. You have access to Blackbriar trainers. Hell, you've got Blackbriar agents. Ask them."

"What makes you think we haven't?" Sloane sat up.

"Then, again, you don't need me for this."

"If you want back in, find Bourne for us." Sloane held up the copy of Ross's articles on Treadstone. "Bring him in. We can't ignore him anymore, not after this. His continued existence is an ongoing threat to this agency."

The sick feeling was back in Pamela's stomach at what Sloane was so careful not to say. Now she knew the price tag for getting her own life back.

Pamela had to kill Jason Bourne.


	5. Stratagems and Effects

**Chapter Five Winter Bourne**

Chapter Five – "Stratagems and Effects"

**Nicky Parsons**

When you're on the run from the CIA, some behaviors will keep you alive. Others will get you killed. It's not hard to figure out that getting drunk or doped isn't a smart survival strategy. Shopping on the other hand, as odd as it might seem, can keep you alive.

Nicky Parsons was survival shopping for an urban environment. She bought knee high brown leather boots from the _Juliennes_ store inside the New City shopping mall at Place Rogier. She picked up a calf-length skirt with a paisley pattern in tans and reds and a matching jersey from _NAF NAF_. Her final purchases there were a fitted brown leather jacket that showed off her curves and a tan silk pashima. Nicky changed in the food court's bathroom and walked out looking just like another native Belgian woman, shopping bags in hand.

Nicky, trained as a field agent, may never have had the skills of a Treadstone operative, but she knew the basic rules. If your cover is blown, rule one was _Get the hell __out!_ Leaving Jason behind, Nicky had gotten out of Tangiers and gone north, traveling by bus and by pokey local trains until she'd gotten to Belgium.

It hadn't been an easy trip. Every time she walked through a door, every time a stranger caught her eye, every time a cop passed by; her heart had jumped into her throat. Nicky had slept in short catnaps, afraid to linger anywhere long enough for a full night's rest until she reached some place where she felt safe. The worst of the trip was the weariness of being constantly alone, and knowing that it wasn't going to get better.

Nicky had picked Brussels as a safe haven for several reasons. First, it was a country she'd never been too, which adhered to a corollary of Rule 1: "_Avoid __running to __familiar places_" Another factor in Brussels' favor was the combination of it being the home of NATO's headquarters as well as it was the official location of the European Union. It meant that large numbers of foreigners were perpetually coming and going, making Nicky's arrival a non-event to locals.

Rule two was '_Blend in'_. Nicky had years of practice of blending in Paris, when she'd needed to. Since Belgium had dual national languages of French and Dutch, Nicky would have an easier time passing as a native here, though she knew she'd have to remember to broaden her Parisian accent. When she'd gotten off the train, stiff from another over-night ride, she'd walked far from the tourist-invested streets to a neighborhood where locals lived. Nicky had sat in a series of cafes and people watched for most of the day to gauge what women her age wore. Then she'd gone shopping.

Now, Nicky left New City mall had walked through Roger Place, past the botanical gardens and left to North Station. Now that she looked like she belonged, Nicky took a bus to the run-down Ouden neighborhood, to go apartment hunting. With a wad of Euros and her handiness at faking papers, Nicky had a six-month lease and a room key by the end of the afternoon.

The studio apartment was worn, but clean. Nicky wedged a chair under the door, tossed her meager luggage against one wall and dragged off her boots. Without bothering to undress further, Nicky laid down. She dragged the heavy duvet cover over herself. Before sleep caught and dragged her deep into oblivion, two questions, limned with sadness, slipped through her tight control. _I__s__ Jason __all right?_ _Is he as lonely as I am?_

Jason Bourne

Jason woke up, fingers scrabbling frantically at his stomach, wondering at an odd sensation, an ache that had deepened until it had pulled him out of his sleep. _The __injur__i__e__s are __worse__ than I__'d thought_.

His hands were shaking so much that it took two tries to turn on the bedside lamp. Muzzy from sleep, from the drugs he'd taken, Jason tore off the navy t-shirt. Blinking down at himself, he traced over the welts and swollen bruises over his ribs and stomach. Worse than when he'd fallen asleep, but understandable as part of the natural healing process.

No blood. Nothing new. Puzzled, he reached for more water and another sleeping pill. The photograph propped up against the lamp caught his eye. Against all protocol, against all common sense, he'd kept this one picture. His sole reminder of Maria. In that instance, he understood the source of the aching. No, this wasn't a new pain at all.

_Maria is dead_.

A deep sound, born of weeks of denied pain, guilt and grief, tore from his throat. He buried his face in the pillow to muffle the sound. He hadn't been able to mourn Marie's death. He hadn't been able to show his grief even when he'd gone to her brother. He'd been too angry, and too driven to find out why it had all started. Well, he'd gotten those answers, and more. None of it had made the emptiness she'd left behind any better.

_Maria__ is dead._

_And __I'm alone._

**Pamela Landy**

The next morning after her meeting with Sloane, Pamela Landy had a new desk, a new office, and a new staff. In her brand new daily planner, she wrote down her first task on an unblemished creamy page. '_Kill Jason Bourne_'.

Then she erased it. Pamela blamed her momentary fit of whimsy on exhaustion. With a brand new title and formal backing right up the food chain to the undersecretary of intelligence, Pamela had been granted privileges to everything and anyone she needed for this one project. At least that was what Sloane had told her.

Pamela had her doubts. However, she didn't voice them, not even to Tom.

Not wanting to waste any time, she'd spent all night sorting through newly accessible information sources and determining priorities. Her three new staffers were completing an analysis of every scrap of information they had on Bourne and Nicky Parsons. Tom had taken the lead on prying information about Blackbriar out of the Vosen's staff.

The only thing she didn't have was a plan. How can I find a man who's been trained to disappear? A man so good at it, that even his own handler hadn't been able to find him?

_Let's see_. Pamela poured herself another cup of coffee. _If I were Jason __Bourne,__where would I go to ground if I were injured?_ The consensus of reports, including her own meeting with Jason outside 415 East, told them that Jason had to be hurt. Vosen had claimed that he'd shot him, but Pamela had seen Vosen's personnel file. He barely passed his .38 training each year, and rarely went to the range for practice. The conclusion was that only dumb luck would have enabled Vosen to hit a moving target at night.

Her monitor flickered as the video from Waterloo station played again. Pamela shook her head. No. Trying to guess what Jason would do was a waste of time. A better approach was to ask what a man in his position _wanted_. Before she'd written down her initial ideas, her door bounced open to admit Tom. "What is it?"

"I'm not getting anywhere with Blackbriar." Tom threw out his hands. "I can't find a single file. Let alone talk to any of the Blackbriar personnel. It's like everything and everyone has disappeared."

"Close the door." Pam said. She pulled out a small suitcase and placed it on her desk.

"Got it." Tom pulled it over, opened it, and ran the equipment through its paces to check for bugs. Annoying, but necessary. At least this office had no windows to allow an enemy to use passive voice sensors. Or for ex-assassins to peer through.

When everything went green, she started again. "Continue to make noise about getting access to Blackbriar, but since hell will freeze over before we get anything, we need to move on."

"But, didn't Sloane say you had full support?"

"Meaningless when it comes to Blackbriar. Someone had to have been put in charge of Blackbriar after Kramer and Vosen were arrested. It's easy to imagine that their top priority would be to hide the rest of the assassin squad. I'm sure all the Blackbriar "assets" have disappeared as well as any paperwork showing that they even existed."

"Despite the Congressional hearings?"

Pamela shrugged. "The only thing they'll ever have is what Bourne found. I guarantee that the rest of the files were in the shredder after Vosen found out that Bourne got into to the Treadstone building."

"Why? Wait - you think Kramer was using it for training Blackbriar operatives?" Tom looked surprised.

"Yes. Why else was Hirsh still have been in there?"

"Good point."

"So, forget relying on Blackbriar to help us." Pamela brushed papers aside and picked up her list. "I have a better idea."

"And that is?" Tom asked.

"Find Nicky Parsons. We can use her as bait."

"I thought you liked Nicky." Tom had his confused expression back on.

Pamela moved her shoulders up and down. "I do like her. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, using her as bait so that we can kill Bourne is a cruel thing to do to her."

"Did I ever say that we were going to kill him?"

"But you said Sloane ordered a hit on Bourne."

"Not quite," Pamela said. "He did everything except give me a direct order to kill him. It gives me some leeway to interpret his words the way I want."

"Pam. He won't be happy with you. I mean-"

Pamela understood his hesitation. Tom didn't want to say it out-loud. "You think Sloane'll put a contract out on me? Why would he bother? I'm not that important, and I'm too ignorant to be dangerous to him."

"What're you planning?"

"I'm looking to pull some justice out of this mess." Pamela got up.

"How?"

"I have some ideas." Pamela held up a hand. "Sorry, Tom. They're fragile right now, and I want to flesh them out before I share them. In the meantime, I have another job for you."

"Doing?"

"Get the staffers to develop a list of all the drugs Treadstone fed their team. Particularly any available only by prescription – or are illegal. Jason might be continuing to use them. We can use that information to find him."

Tom brightened. "Great idea. I'll cross-reference the list against any break-ins or thefts from hospitals and clinics. Or against new prescriptions made in the last five days. Maybe get the cops to help find illegal sources as well."

"Excellent." Pamela grabbed her purse. She needed to get some sleep and a change of clothes. "Give me a report when you get done. I'll be back tomorrow."

"I'll call your escort."

Pamela stopped short. How could she forget? Her home was under constant surveillance by the media. Sloane had ordered her to move to a temporary location, and assigned her a bodyguard as a precaution.

"Thanks, Tom." Pamela gave him a wan smile. "See you tomorrow for another happy day at the CIA."


	6. Waiting for Healing

**Winter Bourne**

Chapter Six – "Planning Phase"

_Three days since Jason jumped from 415 East Street_

**Jason Bourne**

Marie had teased him about it at first. Called it his robotic beauty program. The joke had worn thin in less than a week, and when she'd realized it hurt him, Marie had apologized; she'd never mentioned it again.

Now he was in the bathroom of the Three Corners apartment complex in the heart of New York City, performing that same ritual. After a shower, he always started with his teeth. He flossed twice and brushed for a timed two minutes with fluoridated toothpaste. If a close inspection in the mirror showed plaque, he worried at it with a dental scraper until it was gone. He finished by rinsing his mouth out with antibacterial mouthwash. Then Jason moved on to his hands. He kept his nails even and long enough to pick knots apart. He worked a specialized hand cream into his palms and fingertips, keeping the skin soft to maximize their sensitivity. In complete darkness, he could tell a nickel from a quarter from the raised engraving alone. Jason avoided the calluses along the sides of his palms from under the start of his little fingers to his wrist, and the ones on the knuckles of his index and middle fingers. He needed those for fighting. The ritual concluded when he finished caring for his feet.

It was odd to think that he'd never known that this behavior was a compulsion until Marie had commented on it. No, he hadn't known, until he tried to stop. He'd learned through grim, deliberate practice that he _could_ stop, at a price. A nagging sensation of something wrong, something incomplete that added a dimension of physical ache as the need grew stronger and stronger until satisfying the compulsion was all he could think about. He'd tried to describe it once to Marie and failed. The best he could do was to compare the feeling to hunger. Starts as a whine in your belly and grows stronger and more urgent until you're in pain and your mind becomes focused on one thing, the need to satisfy that ravenous need for food.

Treadstone had done this to him. Another marker that showed how f-ked up he was, despite two years away from their control. The sophistication of the programming, its flexibility, troubled Jason when he considered it. During missions, the compulsion had disappeared. It hadn't re-appeared after Wombasi had shot him and he'd woken up, broken, on that stinking fishing ship off Marseilles. It had crept back in pieces after he'd fled Paris to find Marie. At some point on his quest to find her, this conditioning had reasserted itself until it had become a necessary part of his day. He'd stopped fighting the compulsion. After all, it was a benign behavior, with its intent to keep him healthy. He'd had bigger problems to solve.

A thump against the apartment door and Jason was out of the bathroom, heading toward the window and escape. The monitor showed the back of one of his neighbors, a woman towing groceries and a gaggle of kids along the narrow walkway to her own apartment after work. Not a threat.

Jason took the latest _USA Today_ newspaper back to the bedroom. He eased himself down on the mattress and shoved pillows behind his back. Doses of Ambience had kept him asleep through most of the first two days. Today, three days after crawling out of the East River, his bruises were coming into their full glory. At least he'd stopped finding blood in his urine, a sign that his internal injuries were healing. Another handful of days and he'd walk out of here healthy. Except he didn't have that much time. He had to get out of here tomorrow, pick up Nicky's trail. Another compulsion, a minor chime now among his other pains, would be pushing him out the door before long. He needed to have a plan in place before he left, one that ensured he'd find Nicky without towing danger along in his wake. The CIA would still be after him, no matter what Congress did about Blackbriar.

In Tangiers, he'd refused to hear Nicky's plans or discuss a method to contact each other. He'd told her that the chance of his being captured were too high. He'd been afraid of what the CIA would do to him as much as he'd feared the unknowns that lingered inside his mind. He could recall damned little of his Treadstone training. Nasty surprises could be lurking in his subconscious, more deadly that the compulsions that he already knew about. He hadn't wanted to able to betray Nicky.

Restless, Jason pushed the paper aside. He remembered more of Nicky now. The way she moved, the taste of her skin, that shy smile she'd flash at him when he'd move in close to kiss her. A handful of intimate memories, but nothing that told him of the way that she thought, or hint at what she'd do after she'd left Tangiers. He'd learned more about Marie in the short time that they'd been together in Paris than he'd ever known about Nicky. The juxtaposition of memories, Marie and Nicky, confused him, left him with a feeling of guilt.

No, Jason couldn't remember enough about her to know where she'd go, or the way she reacted to stress. _Wait_. That wasn't the truth. He did know what she did when she was afraid. He'd seen it himself.

In Paris, she'd frozen.

In Copenhagen, she'd shattered.

In Tangiers, Nicky had acted as if she'd undergone some fundamental sea-change. Gone was the woman who gave into her fears. Despite knowing how ineffectual it would have to be, how dangerous, Nicky had attacked a Blackbriar operative bare-handed in order to help him. It'd been enough of a distraction for Jason to thrust Desh away and re-engage.

Jason re-sorted the facts and analyzed them. Eliminating alternate explanations, he found the one common factor that explained Nicky's behavior.

_He was_.

Nicky had been reacting _to him_. Understanding came with the return of his memory, as incomplete as it was. Another surge of real pain, fueled by guilt, churned his guts. It was all his fault. _Poor Nicky_. No wonder she'd reacted the way she had in Paris. She'd had no idea what he was doing, if what he was telling Conklin was the truth, or if he was playing some game, or had flat-out gone mad.

In Copenhagen, Nicky had told him that she'd believed him when he told Conklin that he didn't remember who he was. Nicky was the one who'd told the CIA that he'd was suffering from amnesia. It hadn't mattered to him. All he'd cared about was extracting the information he needed from her. That was a memory that came back, as strong as the day it happened. He'd shoved a trembling Nicky against the dirty wall, then pressed a gun to her temple and demanded answers. She'd been so afraid. Her cries has triggered echoes of Neski's wife, the way she'd begged, right before he'd killed her.

His head was beginning to throb. The memories, he'd chased them for so long, hoping for completeness. Jason didn't want to remember anything more tonight, or think. Or feel. Jason swallowed another sleeping pill and turned off the light.

The USA Today slipped off the bed when Jason turned over. Moonlight revealed a picture of Pamela Landy sitting before a Congressional committee, with a headline of "_Whistleblower Reveals Secret Assassination Bureau inside CIA_".

5


	7. Recruitment Potential

**Winter Bourne**

Chapter Seven – "Recruitment Potential"

**Pamela Landy**

Pamela smoothed the creased _USA Today_ newspaper flat across the top of her desk with both hands. This copy had worked its way up the food chain until a quivering assistant by the name of Jennifer had proffered it to her with an air of trepidation and apology. _I've reached dragon lady status here_. Pamela suppressed a smile. She wondered what horrible stories Tom had been telling the new staff about her. The headline for a second day was the scandal inside the CIA. They even had another photograph of her testifying before Congress. _Shouldn't be much longer before some celebrity gets caught driving drunk or with no panties on and will knock the CIA off the front page_. Then she unfolded the paper. The too familiar wanted poster from Berlin was there in full color on the bottom half. Pamela felt her heart pick up speed when she read the tag line underneath the picture. "_Catch the interview with Blackbriar assassin Jason Bourne tonight on Anderson Cooper_".

Pamela read the article a second time, sure that she must have misunderstood it. No, she'd read it right. _Bourne's going to be interviewed? Unbelievable._ The reporter had gotten Blackbriar mixed up with Treadstone, but that really didn't matter.

"What's he like?"

It was the forgotten Jennifer, hovering over her desk. Distracted, Pamela asked, "Excuse me?"

"Bourne. You've met him, right? Must have been thrilling, yes? I'm mean, what one word what would you use to describe him, huh?"

Pamela pushed her chair back and gave Jennifer her full attention. The twenty-something had an expression on her face that Pamela found peculiar. A crawling sensation swept along her back. She recognized that rabid look from TV coverage of teens swooning at a Beatles concert in the sixties. Pamela chose her words with care. "What is it that you find interesting about him?"

"He's so fascinating. All that time on the run and we couldn't find him? And-" Her eyes were shining.

Pamela felt her stomach turn over as the girl babbled on. Her habit of ending each sentence with a question increased Pamela's annoyance. She held up a hand to stop the enthusiastic outburst. "Wait." Turning to her computer, she rapidly typed a memo, then printed it. She signed it, folded it in half, then handed it to Jennifer. "I know your file. In-house data analysis. You've never seen anyone who's had their brains blown out. The way the brain matter sticks to their clothes. Or the stench because their bowels loosen. You've never seen a gun-shot woman with her guts spilling out onto the floor, have you?"

The smile slipped from Jennifer's face.

"You wanted to know what Jason Bourne's like? He was a murdering bastard who has killed men and woman without remorse for years. Years." Pamela shaded her voice with disgust. "Do you know how many of our own people he's killed?"

Jennifer shook her head.

"Stop romanticizing him." Pamela gestured to the note. "Read it."

Jennifer read the short memo. "Ma'am? I don't understand."

"You're being reassigned. An emergency medical training course. Lots of hands on experience in an emergency room. It should get rid your fascination with Bourne when you see what happens to the victims of violence. Go home and pack."

"What about my job here?"

"It won't be here three months from now anyway," Pamela said. "Don't feel bad. This isn't a punishment, it's a chance to broaden your perspective, and your skills."

When the door closed behind the abashed Jennifer, Pamela shook her head at her own performance. _Dragon lady_? Wait till Jennifer tells everyone this story. _Bitch boss_ would be a better title. Didn't matter. Jennifer needed a wake-up call to move out of her fantasy life and join the rest of them in the real world.

"You left out some details. Like the reason Bourne was killing our people," Tom said. He moved further into her office from his own.

"True, I didn't mention self-defense." Pamela wasn't sure she was in the right mood to explain herself to Tom, but she made an effort. "But we're not sure that's true in every case. Did he kill Varda in self-defense? If so, why did he feel it necessary to blow up his house?"

"Varda?"

"The last Treadstone agent. In Germany."

"Oh, right. I remember. Three marines were caught in that blast." Tom went on, "Did the paper change your mind about Bourne?"

"What do you mean?"

"Bourne's interview with CNN tonight." Tom sat down across from her. "You think he's going to betray us, just like Kramer feared?"

Pamela folded her arms. "You think that Jason Bourne is actually going to be at CNN?"

"Basnight thinks so. He saw the report about an hour ago. He's setting up five teams-"

"Forget it," Pamela interrupted him. "It doesn't make sense. Why hand me the evidence if Bourne planned to go public himself?"

"Basnight said he was doing it for the publicity. So he'll be famous." Tom said it with a straight face.

Pamela was the first one to start laughing.

"Did Basnight call you?" Tom asked. "Thought he'd coordinate with you on the trap he's sitting up to catch Bourne."

"Because I'm supposed to be in charge of the pursuit?" Pamela nodded. "No. But I can't blame him. Testifying before Congress has eaten up more time than I'd thought. Besides, it leaves us free to follow up better leads. Where do we stand?"

"The cops are working their way through the motels, hotels and boarding houses. They might get lucky. Following up on the drug idea's been pretty tough. Too many possibilities. Did he fake a prescription? Bribe or threaten a doctor? Buy them overseas and smuggle them in? Mail them to himself? Steal them? Or just buy them off the Internet?"

Pamela nodded. She traced the outline of the wanted poster with a pen. "Okay. We should keep doing the routine things, but the record shows that the only way we'll find Bourne that way is by sheer dumb luck. What about Nicky?"

"Basnight authorized only a single team to track her down. Latest report says that she hasn't not done any of the dumb things that would help us find her. She hasn't gone to any of her previous homes, used any personal credit cards or called anyone she's knows. Best guess is that she's in Europe somewhere. Someplace north where she'll have a better chance of fitting in. They've forwarded her stats to a bunch of stringers across every country from Norway back down to Tangiers."

"Mmmh." Pamela stared down at Bourne's face.

After a long moment, Tom asked. "What're you thinking?"

"I'm wondering if Jason has read the today's paper."

"Now you're smiling. You have an idea?"

"Yes, I have an idea." Pamela picked up her phone. "I wonder how interested CNN will be when I tell them that we have one Nicky Parsons, Jason Bourne's lover and co-conspirator, in custody?"

"Lover?"

"Sex sells. Or haven't you heard?"

"Bourne would want proof. We don't have any."

"We won't need it," Pamela said. "But it'll sure get his attention if CNN reports it, won't it? Oh, I need you to find someone who's about my weight and height and get them on staff. Don't let anyone know that's the reason for bringing them in. But we need her by tonight."

Tom got to his feet. "A double? What for?"

"For Basnight. To let him think I'm somewhere I'm not."

"Why?"

"Because I know that Bourne won't be interviewed tonight or any other night on CNN. Because I'm sure he'll be watching us while we're staking out CNN's New York office. Because if I'm out there and alone he'll find me."

"Why in God's name do you want him to find you?" Tom's asked. "You think you can trap him yourself?"

"No. No trap. I want him to do a little job for me."

Tom's jaw didn't quite drop. He swallowed and asked with an air of suspicion, "What job?"

Pamela laughed. "I'll tell you if he decides to take it."

Tom rubbed his face, then stood up straight. "All right. I'm on it."

"Wait." Pamela put down her phone. "Tom. Thank you. I do appreciate how you've stuck with me through everything this last week. It's helped a lot."

He gave her a wry smile. "You're welcome. Just don't get killed, okay?"

"I'll do my best."

The CNN operator finally answered the phone. In her chilliest official voice, Pamela said, "This is CIA field director Pamela Landy. Please have Mr. Anderson Cooper call me as soon as possible. I have some information that he might find of interest for tonight's interview. My number? Just have his office call the CIA and give them my name. The CIA's number? We're in the book."

Pamela made a second call. "Gerry? Hi. Yes. That's right. Pamela Landy. Yes, it's been awhile. Gerry, how soon can you get me fifty thousand – no wait, better make it seventy-five grand, in euros? Small bills. That soon? Great. I'll have someone pick it up. Thanks."

A hiring bonus might help. Pamela smiled to herself as she got her pocketbook and coat. She needed some rest and a change of clothing before tonight. She wanted to be at her best before she started dealing with one very smart, very paranoid man. Pamela hoped that she's build a tiny shred of trust with him, enough so that he'd listen to her proposal.

As she left her office, Pamela realized she hadn't really answered Jennifer's question. A one word description of Jason Bourne? What was her personal take-away from that oh so brief exchange outside 415th East Street? She flipped through a number of different words and selected one. His eyes, his face, the way he moved and spoke? One word could sum Jason Bourne up.

_Intense_.

8


	8. Face to Face

**Winter Bourne**

Dear reader, Of course, there wasn't a plot when I started writing this story. Had actually started writing a Nicky and Jason chapter when this new plot twist insisted on being written. It's changed the direction of the story and has made some of the previous details inconsistent. Particularly the timeline – I really need to work on that! So, please forgive me, will complete a re-do when done.

Chapter 8 "Face to Face"

Pamela reflected that her biggest regret so far this night was her shoe selection. On the unprotected rooftop of the Exelon building with its direct sightline to the CNN broadcasting center, the wind blowing off the Atlantic was fierce. She was feeling the cold, but had worn enough layers of clothing to keep from freezing. Except for her feet. Nylons and leather boots weren't enough protection in this weather.

Another thing she hadn't expected was the sound. The wind's rush across the rooftops and the metallic symphony it evoked from the hordes of air conditioning and vents was so loud she had a hard time hearing her radio as she listened to Anderson Cooper's interview with 'Jason Bourne' wind down.

CNN had played it cute, claiming that 'Jason' had demanded that his face and voice be disguised. Pamela shook her head as the interview ended. No matter how much he was being paid, the idiot was who had taken on the Bourne identity would soon be one very, very sorry man. _If not just plain dead_. From her position, she could spot at least two teams, rifles at the ready, lying in wait on rooftops closer to CNN's location. The intervening buildings didn't allow her to see it, but she knew Basnight would have triple teams on the streets outside, just waiting for to capture and haul 'Bourne' away. She shook her head again. Basnight was another idiot, if he could read all the material they had on David Webb and believe that a man so carefully indoctrinated in being invisible, would ever appear on television, in disguise or not.

"Landy!"

Even though she'd been prepared for it, the voice made her jump. Pamela whirled toward the doorway. He was standing inside, hands cupped around his mouth as if he'd been shouting at her and was prepared to do it again.

She tugged down the scarf she'd wrapped around her face. Then she pulled her earplug out and held it and the radio out to him as she approached. "I'm not wired."

He ignored it, gesturing for her to precede him down the narrow steps. She slipped once on her unsteady, frozen feet. A hand grabbed her arm, keeping Pamela from falling.

"Thanks."

Once they'd reached the floor of the hallway, he said, "Stop. Wait."

He took a palm-sized metal box from his heavy overcoat. He ran it all over her, head to toe, side to side. Satisfied with the results, he said. "Let's go."

Pamela felt heat light up in her stomach. How dare he question her professionalism? It was as if he hadn't thought her capable of taking precautions against being tracked. As she followed him into an elevator, she let her anger go. He had good reasons for paranoia, and fewer reasons to trust her. He had no idea what she was after tonight. It had taken a fair degree of nerve for him to show up.

The elevator doors slid shut. He punched buttons for four different floors. _Interesting_. Pamela studied him without any attempt at disguising it as they descended. He was giving off a different vibe than their last hasty meeting. Less angry? Less determined? She wasn't sure. The left side of his face showed the cuts and bruises he'd picked up six days ago. A long red cut above his right eye at the hairline revealed a tidy series of sutures. Thumbprints of purple shadowed his eyes, revealing exhaustion or pain. He returned her examination with a face so empty she had no idea what he was thinking.

"What should I call you?" Pamela asked. It wasn't a question he'd expected. He actually blinked. His face lost its rigidity. It hit her right then, like a blow to the pit of her stomach, that _he didn't know the answer_. All the academic knowledge of amnesia and the brutal conditioning that he'd been put through hadn't prepared her for the lost expression she saw before he turned his face away. Out of kindness, she added, "If it's okay, I'll call you Jason."

He nodded.

"Do you need a doctor? Vosen claims he shot you."

"He missed."

"I wanted to talk to you-"

"Not here," Jason cut her off.

Pamela checked her watch. "I have about five hours before I'll be missed."

Another nod.

It was obvious that he wasn't a talker. He took her arm as they left the elevator. On this floor, the building opened into an attractive mall, with a wide space down the middle and stores and restaurants lining each side. Deciding that he had a fixed destination in mind, Pamela suppressed her annoyance and let him lead her. When they approached a food court, Jason stopped. He gestured to an empty table and said, "Wait here."

Before Pamela could react, Jason had woven through the crowd and disappeared. Pamela pressed her lips together to keep a few select words from escaping. It'd had been a lot of years since anyone had treated her as superfluous, and she didn't like it. Then her lips quirked. She'd made a decision to trust him. She had to believe he had a reason for abandoning her here.

She pulled a sticky chair back from a table and sat down. Pamela debated taking off her boots to rub some warmth into her numb feet. Afraid she might not be able to get them back on, she decided against it. She studied the crowd, waiting for Jason to reappear and played one of her least favorite games. It was the one where she tried to guess what one Jason Bourne would do in a given situation and then failed miserably at it. _At least I guessed right today_, she reminded herself. Let's see. What is he doing right now? Searching for a tail would be her first guess. Or maybe he just needed a trip to the john. Of course, he could be going for a job interview at Wendy's. Or he needs to call his bookie. At that point, Pamela knew she'd lost the game. It always ended when she ran out of legitimate ideas and started listing fanciful ones.

"Here."

Pamela jumped. Despite her attempts to see him coming, Jason had managed to walk up behind her. Since she couldn't imagine that scolding him for scaring her would make a good impression, she managed to suppress the urge. Instead, she took the Payless bag he was holding out to her.

"I guessed size eight."

"That's right." Pamela gave herself a point for not having to ask for an explanation. "Why did you get them?"

"The stairs. The way you're walking." His attention didn't stay on her as he spoke. He was scanning the crowd. "I put warming pads into the boots. It should help."

The boots were hideous. They had rounded toes and were made of cheap canvas decorated in pea green and maroon stripes. On the plus side, the boots were lined with a thick furry material that looked toasty. Without voicing her disdain for Jason's fashion sense, Pamela stripped off her footware, pulled on the heavy socks that she found in the bag and then the quilted boots. She walked a few paces, tightened the Velcro straps, and then nodded at Jason. The warmth from the gel packs on the soles of her feet felt wonderful. "Thank you."

Jason shrugged off her thanks. He put her old boots into the _Payless_ bag and handed it to her. "Let's go."

Twenty long minutes later, Jason was escorting her inside a family style diner inside another mall. The restaurant was one of those places that wanted to be romantic by pretending to be stuck in the middle of the eighteenth century. The lighting was dim enough that you'd have to hold the menu up to your nose to read it. After the waitress took their drink orders, he didn't waste time on small talk.

"Do you have Nicky in custody?"

"No. I told that to the CNN reporter to make sure you'd be interested." Pamela softened her voice. "I guess this means that you do care if she were in custody, right?"

"Was it the Company's idea to have someone pretend to be Jason Bourne for this interview tonight? Some kind of trap?" Jason ignored her question.

"As far as I know, it wasn't our doing," Pamela said. "The consensus was that some small brained wanna-be got inspired by all the press, figured that you were dead and decided to take your place to get his fifteen minutes of fame. Another group thought that if you were alive, you'd show up at CNN. To check out your competition." Pamela didn't voice the other, uglier opinions she'd heard.

Jason must have caught some slight hesitation as she edited herself. "What else did they say?"

Pamela knew she'd been busted. If his radar was that sensitive, she didn't want to lie to him. "Some thought you'd show up to kill the impersonator to protect your reputation."

"That's what you thought?"

Pamela caught the way Jason leaned forward when he asked it, the disgust clear in his voice. His eyes were intense, seeming bluer as the soft light caught them. _He cares what I think. He wants me to think he's a good man. I can use that._ She told him the truth. "I thought you'd take the opportunity to watch the watchers. See how we dealt with the situation. Or use it somehow to help Nicky."

The waitress interrupted by serving their coffee. "Are you ready to order?"

"House salad. Ranch on the side, please," Pamela said. Not that she was hungry. It was just camouflage. A couple on a date.

"Same, please," Jason echoed her order. After the waitress left, he asked, "What do you want from me?"

Pamela took a sip of coffee before she answered. She was wary of that flat, lifeless tone. On the other hand, it showed her one good thing about Jason. You didn't have to explain obvious things, like why you had been standing alone outside on a rooftop at night in winter. She gave him a point.

"Dr. Hirsch died last night. Apparent heart attack."

Jason reacted to that. "You don't think-"

Her turn to interrupt. "That you did it? No." She waited until an elderly couple walk by before starting again. "I don't know what the autopsy will say, but the timing is too convenient. Hirsch knew all the people involved in creating Treadstone and Blackbriar, from Abbott and Conklin down to Kramer and Vosen, and whomever else in between. Once Congress announced their investigation, Hirsh was a threat to everyone who'd been involved in standing up and running those operations."

"So I killed Hirsh even without pulling the trigger myself," Jason said.

"You can blame me for not realizing that he'd be in danger," Pamela countered. "Which brings me back to the reason for wanting to talk to you. It's about Nicky."

The tension was back in Jason's expression.

The waitress interrupted by delivering their salads.

"Of all the CIA operatives involved in Treadstone only you, Nicky and a few inconsequential staffers are left alive," Pamela said. "The files you got from Vosen gave us the names of nine Blackbriar operatives. Since the Congressional hearing, three of these men have died. One by natural causes. Two in traffic accidents." Pamela took another sip of coffee. "Neither Kramer or Vosen will cooperate. Their staff shredded all the Blackbriar files and ran magnets over their hard drives before we could get to them. Since we're holding Kramer and Vosen incommunicado, it's clear someone else is running Blackbriar's remaining operatives."

"And this person is busy tidying up loose ends."

"Nicky is one of those loose ends. As are you." Pamela took a photo from her pocketbook. She slid it across the table. "Recognize him?"

"Blackbriar," Jason tapped the photo. "They set him on me."

"His name is Paz. Vosen burned him the night you went to the Treadstone building. When he broke his conditioning."

"By not killing me."

"Right."

"You know where he is."

It wasn't a question. Pamela nodded. "He came to me three days later. Paz said that everything had vanished. His contact's phone numbers are no longer in service. The safe house he went to every week is empty. They canceled all of his cards and his bank accounts. Even his private stash was emptied. We're tracing back all of these actions, but so far they've all been useless."

"Why isn't he dead?"

A perceptive question. "An electrical fire started in his apartment the second night after you jumped into the river. Paz said the only reason he made it out alive was that he'd fallen asleep in front of the television near the front door. That's when he came to me. I've had the fire marshal report him as dead. Then I sent him after Nicky."

Pamela regretted the words as soon as she spoke. The change in Bourne was remarkable. Alarming. He'd gone still. All of his attention focused on her, his eyes the only thing alive in his face. The animal part of her brain knew she was in danger and adrenalin kicked in, raising her heart rate and drying out her mouth. _Damn it, Pamela, that was a stupid way to tell him. _She held both hands out in a pacifying gesture. "To find and protect her. Before they do."

Bourne's expression didn't change for a long moment. Then he broke his gaze, his frozen expression softening, and nodded. "Where is he?"

Pamela didn't sag in relief, but it was close. She took a needed sip of coffee. "I'll tell you. And I'll give you a thumb-drive that has everything we know about Nicky as well. Please, hear me out. I'll make it short."

He gave her a nod.

Bourne's hands were restless, betraying his eagerness to leave. Pamela reduced her prepared talk down to its bones. "We need help tracking down the rest of Blackbriar's operatives. Get them back from whoever's running them. Make sure they're not a threat to the Company or to this nation."

He snapped his gaze back at her. A growl of anger graveled his voice as he said, "You can't seriously believe that I'd come back."

"You do this and you're an ally instead of a potential and ongoing threat." Pamela met his eyes without heat. "It gives you a chance to lead a normal life once it's over."

Jason folded his arms across his chest, his expression showing disbelief.

"It's documented, and signed all the way up to the Secretary of Defense," Pamela said. "This is a real offer."

"What about Nicky?"

"Give us Blackbriar and you'll both get the same deal. No prison. Immunity from prosecution for all charges. New identities and money to start all over again. No one hunting you."

Bourne's mouth quirked into an almost smile. "They're scared."

"Damn right they're scared. So am I. We don't even know how many Blackbriar operatives are out there. We want our people back." Pamela swallowed, trying to rein back her own outrage. "Are we going to find out that they sold Blackbriar training to Al-Quaida?"

When he just continued to look at her, she tried again. "Please consider -."

Jason cut her short. "When was the last time you went home?"

Pamela frowned. Jason's whole demeanor had changed in an instant from skeptical and impatient to intense. He'd thought of something. Something bad. "Right before the Congressional committee meeting. Four days ago."

"Don't go back."

Now it was her turn to be skeptical. "You think they'd come after me? Why? I don't have any insider information. Just what was in the files you gave me."

"You were mole hunting in Berlin, yes?"

Another topic change. Pamela answered without trying to understand where he was going. "Right."

"You've done it before? Successfully?"

"Yes."

"So the Company has put a known, successful mole hunter in charge of finding Blackbriar's mole? It has to be at least a director-level traitor. Who knows you're trying to recruit me?"

Another topic shift. "Less than a dozen people."

"Too many." Jason shook his head. "You still think you're not in danger?"

A chill flashed along Pamela's spine that had nothing to do with the weather. She plucked the preset phone she'd bought earlier from her coat pocket. "I'm calling my senior staffer. He escorted a double to my apartment to cover me for tonight."

It was an eternity before the phone rang. Longer until Tom's voice mail picked up. _Tom, please don't be dead_. She threw her purse across the table. As fast as she could, she summarized the contents. "The envelope includes everything I have on Blackbriar. I've set up some dead-drops for contacting me. Nicky's information as well."

"Paz?"

"A dead-drop for him as well. He seemed interested when I said you might join him." Pamela started dialing, intent on getting help to her apartment as soon as humanly possible. She spared a glance up and was surprised to find Jason watching her. She made a final plea, not ashamed to show her own fear, the not-quite panic she was holding back while she wondered if she'd just killed her best friend. "Jason. It's taking a chance for both of us. If I haven't set it up right, think of a better way. Please. Help me."

An operative finally answered her call, "Code in."

"Blue pine, one, sixteen, yellow five," Pamela said. "I'm calling in a delta code." The phone line clicked as the operative passed her along to the emergency team. This time when she checked, Jason was gone.

As was the envelope from her pocketbook. Pamela let out a long sigh of relief. At least he hadn't rejected her offer out of hand. Maybe, just maybe, he'd find a way to work with the Company again.


	9. Memory Lane, Part 1

**Winter Bourne**

Apologies for a short entry, will be updating before New Year's. Hope everyone has a great holiday!

Chapter 9 "Memory Lane, Part 1"

**Nicky Parsons**

Nicky was curled under the duvet in her new apartment. After days of tension, of fear, she slept, and sleeping, she dreamed of her office in Paris. Nicky frowned, displeased at her unruly unconscious for dragging her back to a place and time she wanted to forget, at least for now. She needed to be someone else.

_Paris 2002_

Another ordinary day in Paris, another protest march from yet another group of disaffected workers. Nicky shook her head in bemusement and turned back to her computers. The buzzer to the door rang while she was immersed in arranging the transport of updated GPS displays to her office. Startled by the unexpected visitor, Nicky checked the door monitor.

It was Conklin.

The sensation that Nicky felt was stronger than fear. A queer sensation of raw electricity raced along her nerves, leaving her feeling weak and nauseous. _Conklin found out about me and Jason_. She'd been warned about forming an attachment to any of the men she monitored. Though Conklin had used cruder words. She wasn't sure what Conklin would do to her or to Jason if he'd found out. She jumped to her feet as another impatient buzz rang out.

Conklin brushed past Nicky as she opened the door, busy talking on his phone. Behind him walked Danny Zorn, who gave her his usual reserved nod. Nicky was grateful for Conklin's inattention. It gave her a chance to recover her composure. Her face was calm when Conklin snapped shut his phone to glare at her.

"You have the package ready for the swap?" Conklin asked.

Nicky was used to his abruptness. Conklin never wasted time on pleasantries. She answered, "Yes, sir."

"What's the meet time and location for Azul?"

"Seventeen thirty. Outside the Regina Hotel." Nicky held out the cheap camera. She'd pried the back of it open, tossed out the camera works and replaced it with a squarish plastic blob that had been shipped to the office. As usual, she had no idea what was inside it, or of the mission specifics. Her role was to be walking outside the hotel where she'd drop the camera at the right time. Azul, in the role of a kind stranger, would pick it up and hand it to her. Then Nicky would continue on her way. Except, of course, the camera she'd be holding wouldn't be the one she'd brought.

Conklin grunted. "Give it to me." He handed the camera to Danny. "You make the exchange."

Nicky and Danny exchanged a startled look.

"Sir. I don't speak the language. Clothes-"

"You're playing a tourist, Danny." Conklin was in a pissy mood. "How hard can that be?"

Danny visibly swallowed. "Yes sir."

Conklin was prowling the office. Uncertain of what was going on, Nicky faded away to return to her computer.

"Where the hell is he?" Conklin asked Danny.

"Bourne's on his way, sir."

Nicky froze for a second.

Conklin continued to ignore her as he made another call back to Langley. Then she relaxed. No way would Conklin have a confrontation about a relationship with the two of them in the room at the same time. Besides, it wasn't as if they'd committed treason. Nicky comforted herself with the idea that worst he'd do is fire her. Or have her reassigned, with a black mark on her record showing her failure to keep her work and social life apart. _Right_?

The buzzer rang. Nicky froze in her seat, afraid that she'd betray the emotions she was barely keeping under control if she saw Jason. Fortunately, Danny opened the door.

Conklin snapped his phone shut. "Nicky. Go for a walk. Bring back lunch in..," he checked his watch, "ninety minutes. Salads."

Grabbing her purse, Nicky jumped up. She exchanged a careful, polite nod with Jason on the way out the door. Grateful to escape the increasing tension in the room, Nicky didn't care that Conklin had demoted her to go-fer.

Within minutes, Nicky was sinking into a chair at the Rosale café. It was one of her favorite places. The center of the restaurant's courtyard held an elaborate fountain surrounded by lush lavender plants and roses. She drank a full glass of the soft red wine that was a product of the owner's own vineyard, wanting a little buzz to calm down her nerves.

Too many odd things were going on. Conklin showing up without first calling ahead. Then summoning a Treadstone operative, let alone his heavy hitter, to meet him there in broad daylight. She hadn't dared meet Jason's eyes as she'd left, afraid that she'd do or say something stupid and Conklin would catch it.

Anxiety made her breathing quicken. She sure as hell didn't want to go back to that office. Didn't want to find out whatever it was that Conklin was planning. If he'd brought Jason in, whatever he was doing meant that someone was going to end up dead.

Except this wasn't a regular job. She couldn't walk away on a whim. The consequences were likely to be fatal.

Nicky shuddered. This wasn't the life she'd expected. She beckoned the waiter to order another glass of wine. "_Un autre verre de vin, s'il vous plaît" _Although she didn't have an appetite, she ordered a sandwich, "_et sandwich grillé à fromage_."

Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to stop seeing Jason. She wouldn't have to be so afraid all the time. She took a hefty swig of wine at the thought.

Nicky had never had a lover who treated her way Jason did. Boyfriends had bought her things, been infatuated with her looks, been proud to be seen with her. Her two college affairs had been crushes that started heavy and faded into mutual disinterest once their lust had worn out. Her first Parisian boyfriend had been fun, but he'd bored her after a few months. They all did after a while.

Jason was different.

After that first time they touched, Jason had done nothing to show that he was interested. It'd had taken Nicky a while before she realized that he hadn't trusted her. Nicky was sure that he'd suspected that her interest in him was pure fabrication, another test by Conklin to see what he'd do.

Nicky had taken the next step by committing her interest on paper, slipping him a note during one of their scheduled sessions. It'd had been simple, saying 'Let's meet for lunch'. Then she'd signed it, giving him ammunition to turn on her.

He hadn't. Instead, Jason had slipped her a note the next time he came in. Unsigned. His fingers brushing hers as he'd given it to her had made her blush. Gradually, they'd started to meet, usually over a meal. To talk.

He was so damn serious. Getting him to talk to her about anything more than trivia was hard. Coaxing a smile from him took even more work. It'd always been worth it.

That first kiss. One night as they were leaving a grubby restaurant halfway across the city he'd finally decided to take this next step. She'd never forget the thrill when he'd reached out, hesitant at first, to run his hands along her arms, embrace her. The way he'd watched her face as he leaned down to kiss her, as if waiting for her to thrust him away. Nicky had tugged him closer, eager. His tentative touch deepened, became assured, gathering her in until Nicky clung to him, wanting more.

He'd left her then. It had been more weeks of waiting and secretive planning until Jason was willing to take her to place he felt was safe enough for them to be together. She'd had to be satisfied with occasional furtive kisses that grew more and more fevered until she had started not to care about getting caught.

She'd never been so nervous before when she'd shown up for their first rendezvous at an older hotel in the heart of the city. She'd stood before the door, her heart racing, nerves thrumming in anticipation and – he hadn't been there. Nicky remembered how angry she'd been. The anger had melted into concern. She'd walked away, as fast as she she could, heading past the other worn-down tourist hotels until she could find a subway entrance.

Then a hand had slipped under her arm, and Jason had said her name. Startled, she'd simply stared up at him, too angry to speak. He'd given her a shrug, but no apology, expecting her to realize that suspicion and a fair degree of paranoia were part of his nature. She'd hadn't understood until that moment what his life was like. How he lived from day to day wondering if each stranger was a threat. Wondering if every new situation was a trap. It wasn't any wonder he suffered from severe headaches.

She'd understood and forgiven him. The rest of that night had been a lot more entertaining.

Her cell phone rang, interrupting her memories. It was another student from her German class, reminding her that she had a paper to complete. As part of her cover, she was taking classes, and had an obligation to do well enough not to get kicked out. She checked the time, ordered three salads to go, and allowed herself ten more minutes before leaving.

Nicky didn't understand her fascination with this one man. Of all the Treadstone agents, she'd never felt anything for Jason except fear. Now she loved being with him. She loved watching his face, the way the stoic expression would melt when they were tangled together in bed. The shy smile that would flicker across his mouth, then disappear. She loved the hands that knew her every sensitive place, how to evoke such passion in her that she hated that they had so few times together.

Leave Jason? She was getting to the point where she couldn't breathe without him.


	10. Rocky Getaway

**Winter Bourne**

Chapter 10 "Rocky Getaway"

Pamela Landy

_Thirty-seven minutes_? Pamela checked her watch again, wondering if it was broken. It has to be at least two hours since she'd called to check on Tom, right? At least it felt like two hours. He should be at her apartment near CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, babysitting her double. Except Tom didn't answer his phone, or her new home telephone. No one did.

Clutching her cell phone so hard was making her fingers numb. Pamela slipped the phone into a coat pocket and shook the tension out of her hands. She'd left her gloves, along with the Payless bag with her old boots in them at the restaurant where she'd met Jason Bourne. Now she was pacing up and down outside the busy service entrance of the mall, dodging people and trucks, waiting for a pick-up from a local operative. It had been painful to ask for help, but after hearing nothing from Tom, she'd called Director Sloane.

The summary hadn't taken long. Despite her fear for Tom, she couldn't help feeling amused at the shock in Sloane's voice after she admitted her contact with Bourne. He'd recovered fast enough. Sloane had dispatched a team to check her apartment, and another team to pick her up. Since her new boss had all but directly ordered her to have Jason killed, Pamela was trying to think of palatable ways to explain to Sloane why she'd done a one-eighty on him. Pamela was uncomfortably aware that she'd be pretty damn pissed if one of her subordinates had done this to her. She needed to find a way to explain her gut reaction that they needed Jason to get the entire Blackbriar operation exposed.

Another delivery van turned to go into the mall, its headlights momentarily blinding her. A horn beeped twice as a white SUV right behind the van slid to a stop in front of her, sending icy water sloshing over the sidewalk. Pamela jumped back in time to avoid the worst of it. The driver's door opened and Bob Shipperton, a man she'd known from the old New York office, leapt out. Right into the puddle, Pamela noted with satisfaction.

A muted cracking sound, different from the ordinary background noise of the city, sounded from behind her. Bob clutched his throat, a surprised look at his face. Blood, a dark red under the streetlights, spurted from between his fingers.

Pamela jerked her head around to see the shooter striding up the sidewalk, a bare six feet away from her. He looked like a hundred other men she'd seen today, multi-ethnic features under dark hair, dressed in jeans under a black wool coat. He was watching her as he raised his gun again, implacable. No time to run and nowhere to hide. She lifted her head, waiting, as a prayer of remorse and regret filled her mind.

Another crack. Pamela flinched, hoping her pain would be short. Then her eyes reported something strange. The shooter staggered, as if he'd been hit from behind. He twisted on his feet to aim his gun behind him at his unseen attacker.

Pamela couldn't see what hit him then, but something did. She could see the way his head snapped back on his neck that he'd been hit directly in the face. The shooter's arms flew up to protect his head. Again, she couldn't see it, but something appeared to hit the shooter in his midsection, hard enough to make him stagger backward a step.

Pamela heard the sound of running footsteps. The shooter heard them and recovered enough to bring his gun hand down. Before he could aim at his attacker, the running sounds stopped and the shooter rocked back. Again, it appeared that he was struck in the face. Dazed, the shooter dropped the gun, his hands groping up toward his head.

Jason Bourne came out of the shadows, running dead on toward the shooter. With the shooter's body between them, she couldn't see much of Jason's attack. Only that it was over in seconds. It ended with the shooter crumpled to the sidewalk.

Bending down, Jason scooped up the gun. Pamela couldn't see his face well enough to judge, but she remembered that Jason had killed the Blackbriar assassin in Tangiers. For Nicky. Tonight, Jason had followed her. To protect her. Logic told Pamela that Jason would decide to eliminate this assassin as well.

"Don't kill him!" Pamela yelled. "Please. We need him alive. He's the only real lead we've got."

Jason's head tilted, as he considering it. He spared her a glance, gave her a single nod, then knelt down beside the shooter.

Pamela sank back against the cold wall of the building, shaking with thwarted adrenalin. She was aware that her own reaction had been poor. She should have taken advantage of the shooter's distraction to run. Instead, she'd been mesmerized, unable to move. Forcing herself, Pamela knelt beside Bob. Pushing the coat's collar aside, she checked his throat wound. The gore from the bullet had left a hole wide enough to sink a finger into. Pamela turned away as she tried not to vomit. Fumbling, she checked for a pulse in a wrist. Nothing. Bob was dead. With regret, Pamela closed his eyes.

Getting back to her feet, she walked to Jason. He'd pulled off the shooter's backpack, and was emptying his pockets.

Pamela shuddered at her attacker's face. Jason had smashed the man's nose and left cheekbone flat and destroyed his left eye. A swelling above his left temple was already turning purple. No wonder he'd been unable to put up much of a fight.

"Rocks?" Pamela picked up one of the baseball sized chunks of broken asphalt lying near the unconscious man. She heard the incredulous note in her voice as she asked, "You attacked him with rocks?"

"Open the back of van."

Jason was ignoring her question. He had a tendency to do that. Since it wasn't the time or place to argue the point, Pamela obeyed without objection. Jason hauled the shooter up the street and shoved the heavier man into the back. He dumped the contents of the shooter's backpack onto the floor. Using the tie straps he found inside, Jason secure the shooter to the seat's metal supports. Then he scooped up the rest of the stuff to cram it into the backpack.

"We've been here too long." Jason tossed the backpack up to the front. "Get in the front passenger seat."

They'd been lucky not to attract a crowd before now. Pamela scanned the area. A couple of older men were watching from across the street. They scuttled away as Pamela looked at them. Pamela wondered how long it would take them to find a phone and call the police. The few other people appeared oblivious to the fight. No one had a cell phone or video cameras pointed at them. Pamela let out a sigh of relief at that. At least this incident wouldn't be on CNN tonight. _Wait_. The mall had to have security cameras for the loading area.

Pamela slid into the passenger seat. Jason opened the side door behind the driver's seat. With economical movements, he hauled Bob's limp body onto the seat. Pamela bit her lip to keep her protesting his cavalier treatment of someone she'd known. _Foolish_. Bob was dead and couldn't be hurt anymore. No matter how you considered it, they were much better off to take Bob with them.

Jason got behind the wheel and put on his seatbelt. The SUV's engine caught smoothly. He pulled away from the curb and sped up.

"We have a problem," Pamela said. "The mall's security cameras-"

"I took care of it earlier." Jason interrupted. "Put on your seatbelt."

Pamela pressed her lips firmly together. Someday, if they both survived, Pamela was going to have a little chat with him about his manners. She put on her seatbelt. "Where are we going?"

"Who did you call after I left you?"

"Jason, I'd prefer it if you'd answer me first." She tried to keep her annoyance out of her voice and could hear that she hadn't succeeded.

"I am."

Pamela bit off a hasty, angry remark to think about his cryptic answer. Realized that she was exhausted and suffering from some degree of shock. She wasn't connecting the dots as quickly as she usually did. Of course, he needed to know whom she'd told. Someone had betrayed her tonight. Someone who wanted her dead. "I apologize. I'm not thinking clearly. I called my boss. My new boss. Edward Sloane."

"Anyone else?"

"No."

"Could he be Blackbriar?"

Her suspicions aroused, Pamela considered it. She hated having to do it. Suspecting that every co-worker was the enemy wasn't the way the CIA should work. For now, it was her reality. "You're thinking Slone is using the '_Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'_ approach?"

"He'd know how close you were getting to him."

"Jason, Sloane didn't assign me to hunt down Blackbriar." She watched him, wondering if she'd be able to read his reaction. She swallowed and said, "He ordered me to hunt _you_ down - and kill you."

He stiffened. She could see that. Her heart picked up speed, waiting for him to turn violent. They were on the highway now. All he had to do now was render her unconscious, throw her out of the car and she'd be dead. If not from the immediate impact, then from being run over by one of the thousands of cars and trucks racing along side them. She had no doubt he could do it one-handed as he continued to drive.

The silence stretched on.

"Well, you're not doing a very good job of it." He gave her one of those sidelong assessing glances. "At least not the last part."

Pamela didn't let her jaw drop, but it was a close thing. _Humor_? That was the last thing she'd expect from him. She recovered. "Even if we can't trust Sloane, we can use him."

"We?" The amusement was gone from his voice. "There is no 'we'. I'll take you somewhere safe, then you're on your own."

"Thank you for my life." Now it was her turn to ignore something he'd said.. Some instinct warned her that pressing him to help her would backfire. "I forgot to say that earlier."

More silence. A single nod told her he'd heard. Pamela rubbed fingertips against her eyes, considering what she should do. Perhaps the Blackbriar operative in the back of her van could be used as a bartering chip or sacrificial goat to lure Blackbriar out of hiding to rescue him. Except, if he were like Paz, he would know nothing about the overall Blackbriar operation and his trainers would know that. Frustrated, Pamela longed for Tom's steady presence. She'd come up with some of her best ideas after bouncing them against Tom. At the thought of her assistant, tears sprang to her eyes. He had to be dead, or he would have called back by now.

"Does Sloane know that you have Paz?"

"No." Pamela continued, "I was giving him plausible deniability for using a Blackbriar operative."

"Why do you trust him? Paz?"

"I'll tell you what the shrink said." Pamela leaned her head back against the seat. "She said that once Paz had broken out of the conditioning, he was able to think past the engrained behaviors to question the reality that had been built for him. He was able to accept that he'd been lied to by the people he's trusted. That he was angry at being used, and wanted revenge. By engaging Paz to protect someone that Blackbriar wanted dead, I was giving him a way to do that."

Jason was silent again.

Pamela waited him out.

"Did he have amnesia?"

Pamela felt a pang of sympathy. Her voice was soft when she answered, "No."

"Did you send him after Nicky alone?" They were stopped at a red light right off George Washington bridge. They were heading toward New Jersey. Jason turned to her, his face intent.

"Paz said he'd prefer it." Pamela saw Jason's hands squeeze on the steering wheel. "You think that was a mistake."

"He shouldn't be alone."

"You could help him, as well as find Nicky." Pamela sat up straight and folded her arms together. She was getting her second wind. "My instinct says to trust Sloane. This attack will only help prove that Blackbriar is being used against the CIA itself. Better, I have proof since you captured the Blackbriar operative. Believe me, now I'll get the support I need to go after out real problem, the mole running Blackbriar."

"Go after Nicky, Jason." Pamela made sure it sounded like a suggestion and not an order. "I'll set things up to make sure things go right at this end. Now that I know that there's a rat in Sloane's direct chain of command below him, I can smoke them out. Since I know now that I am a target, I won't be caught unprepared again."

Jason shook his head. "You froze today. You can't do that and survive. Bodyguards won't keep you alive against Blackbriar. Don't go back to Langley unless you stay there, in the building, until this is over. Don't just drive there, all the roads will be covered. You'd be dead before you were ten miles near the place. If you don't go back, never let anyone know where you are. Keep moving. If Sloane objects to anything you do to protect yourself, stop trusting him."

While he'd been talking, Jason had pulled over to the curb. They were in one of the busy city centers just inside the New Jersey border. He gave her one of those assessing looks, then go out.

Stunned, Pamela took off her seatbelt. She sprang out of her seat to demand that he talk to her – but he'd already vanished into the night.


	11. Memory Lane, Part 2

**Chapter 11 "Memory Lane, Part 2"**

**Nicky Parsons**

Nicky Parsons, hiding in a studio apartment in Brussels, was dreaming of her Treadstone office in Paris. Her mind skipped past memories of her first time in Jason's arms to the one horrible day that Conklin had come to her office unannounced and seething with some secret rage. Her memory skipped again, to a time later in that same day when her life and Jason's had first begun to unravel.

_Paris 2002_

Conklin wasn't telling Nicky anything. This was one time that Nicky was quite happy to remain ignorant. At least now she had some idea why he was here. It was about Azul. Not one of her favorite Treadstone operatives, Azul was somehow different from the others. He had a nervous and jittery air, a far cry from the glacial calm that most of the others exuded. He'd also had a nasty habit of darting his tongue through his lips and then licking his bottom lip. Creepy. Worse was the glare he used when she interviewed him, as if he were angry at her for daring to speak to him at all.

Azul had gotten hurt during a recent mission. Then his last job hadn't gone well. The victim hadn't died before he'd talked to the Polish cops. Whatever he'd said, at least the Polish authorities had recorded the target's death as a traffic accident. Conklin had been furious at another slip up. He'd ordered Azul back to the states. Nicky hadn't seen Azul for two months. He'd been different when he'd gotten back. Something that she hadn't been able to put into words. He'd been odd before, but since he'd come back, he'd made her flesh crawl whenever their eyes had met. Now it looked like Conklin was worried enough about Azul to oversee his latest operation personally.

Nicky lifted her head from her paperwork to glance at her boss. Conklin was reading the latest assessment from the Company's shrinks. Nicky was curious, but not stupid enough to ask her boss what the docs had said about Azul. She had all the local operative's operations files memorized to ensure their logistics support was superb, but she didn't have access to their personnel files, or to the shrink's reports. Except for what little the shrinks wanted her to know. Mostly about what not to do. Like don't challenge them. Don't try to make friends. Don't do anything that they might construe as a threat, including wearing a weapon. Nicky had taken the advice seriously.

Despite her overwhelming curiosity to learn everything she could about Jason, she hadn't dared try hacking through the system in search of his personnel files. She was sure that some hidden application stored every keystroke and that an interrogator would show up on her doorstep if she went poking around in places she didn't belong.

Nicky went back to her desk, eager to keep out of Conklin's way. Immersing herself into patching the main server's software with security updates, she was able to blank out her surroundings until she heard her name mentioned. Conklin and Danny were huddled together over a map.

"We keep this in-house." Conklin gave Nicky a sidelong glance that made her instantly wary.

Three hours later, after a hasty shopping trip to the nearest _Bon Marché_ department store, Nicky had stood waiting at the corner of Rue de Rivoli and Rue Honoré as dusk fell. She could still remember the soft rose and cream colors of the sun-streaked clouds. Another perfect sky.

Her phone rang. It was Conklin.

"Do it."

As instructed, she'd dropped her huge shopping bag, overfull with cheap knickknacks to the sidewalk. It was obviously a signal to someone Conklin didn't want to contact directly. She'd thought it was a dumb idea. Not that she would have ever dared tell Conklin that. Doing her best to pretend surprise, she'd crouched down to snatch up the sprawled smashed ceramic figurines of the Eiffel Tower. Cramming broken pieces back into the bag, she had walked two blocks, tossed the bag away and had gotten onto the metro at Madeleine station. Following the rest of Conklin's orders, she'd prearranged a meeting with some of her college classmates and had gone out to dinner with them.

The next day the papers had reported that a consul, Alano Monuz from the Spanish embassy, had died from a fall in his bathroom. The author had noted the irony in Mr. Monuz's dying in the safety of his apartment when he'd escaped death in a car crash that had happened earlier that same day.

Conklin and Danny had gone back to Langley that same night.

Two days later, she'd been back in her office, shredding Azul's file. She didn't need a local copy any more. Not interesting enough to make the television news, the newspapers had reported that last night a Canadian tourist had put up fight with a mugger. The article has implied that he'd gotten what he deserved for his stupidity; the tourist had been beaten to death. Nicky had recognized one of Azul's cover identities. After all, she was the one who'd procured the passport for him. Danny had later confirmed Azul's death in an email with orders to get rid of his files.

A Treadstone operative, beaten and killed by a mugger? Nicky hadn't believed it for a second. It had taken her a couple of hours to put all the pieces together. The car crash that hadn't killed the Spanish consul must have been Azul's work. The failure had been too much for Conklin. He'd had Jason finish the job. That explained Monuz's 'accident' in his bathroom. Then Conklin had sicced Jason on Azul.

Bewilderment wasn't an emotion that Nicky often felt. Yet, it had seemed inconceivable to her that Conklin could have done this to his own people. Had he really had Azul murdered to keep his perfect record of accomplishments? If that was true, Nicky was sure that Conklin had a cover story about Azul's death; that he'd been killed during his final mission. She was sure of it when Conklin didn't order an after-action appointment for Jason. No one back at the Company would ever learn how Azul had really died.

Dread turned Nicky's stomach into a cold knot. Had Conklin warned Jason that Azul was Treadstone? She knew Azul's record. He'd killed with the same skill and ease the others had. How badly had Azul hurt Jason? All Nicky had known was that Jason wasn't dead since Danny hadn't told her to shred his file. Was Jason holed up in his apartment, injured? She'd wanted, no _needed_ to go to him. Nicky stood up, grabbed her pocketbook and headed to the door. Her desire to see Jason, to hear his voice, to hold him again was so strong that she'd decided to take a taxi straight to his apartment. Just as she unlocked the door, her whole body trembled under a wave of sick dread as another horrible thought occurred to her.

'_Dear God, what would Conklin do if he does find out about us?_' Her confidence that Conklin wouldn't be angry was gone. Conklin had killed Azul for not meeting his expectations. What would he do to her for messing around with one of his operatives? No, Nicky shook her head. It was worse than that. Jason wasn't just another of Conklin's men, he was Conklin's best, most effective specialist. Nicky had left her bag drop, returning to her chair. She'd had a good idea what Conklin would do. He'd arrange an accident for her. Then he'd send Jason back to the states for re-training. She shuddered at the idea, wondering what the re-training would have done to him.

She'd chafed under Jason's restrictions about their meetings. At that moment she'd been grateful that he'd been so careful. He'd been far wiser than she had. Determined now to be as paranoid as Jason, she wrote three notes. During that night and the following day, she left one note at each of their dead-drop locations. Then she'd waited a day before checking them, hoping to find a message from him. She couldn't go back every day. It wasn't until a week had gone by before she'd found a new note taped to the bottom of the third rail of the fence near her college. Obscured by shrubbery and an over-hanging locust tree, it was easy to pull it off without anyone seeing her. He'd arranged a meeting for tonight. She'd been so relieved to hear from him, she'd pressed her lips to the paper, knowing his hand had touched it.

Following Jason's instructions, that same night Nicky had gone to the one of Paris's main train stations, _Gare du Nord_. Ignoring its elaborate façade, she'd walked up and down the busy streets outside it until a man had brushed against her. Jason. He'd nodded to her, as if in apology, then strode ahead. It was the signal that it was safe for them to go the pre-arranged hotel. She'd used the cardkey he'd slipped into her pocket to get into the room.

He was waiting for her, standing with his back to the bed. "I brought dinner."

Nicky couldn't move, her eyes on his face. Nothing. Not even a bruise. She sagged in relief. "You're all right."

"Yes." He tilted his head, a frown drawing together his brows. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She'd swallowed, sensing that she was making a decision that may change both of their futures. Nicky could ignore what Conklin had done, pretend it hadn't happened. She swallowed, knowing it wouldn't work. She desperately needed to know. Was everything she'd thought about Jason, who he really was, a lie? Could Jason kill another Treadstone operative, just because he'd failed? If that was true, what could he do to her, if Conklin ordered it?

Just at that moment, Jason had reached out to her. She froze. Some unconscious, judgmental barometer had made a decision for her. She hadn't known until just that moment how deep her fear had grown. That Jason, her gentle careful lover, had beaten a man to death, a man that she'd known, with his hands. What else was he capable of?

They'd stared at each other for a heartbeat.

"What is it?" Jason asked. His face went blank, his eyes intent on her face.

"Nine days ago, you killed two men here in Paris."

"We agreed never to discuss business."

"The second man, the 'mugging' victim? His Treadstone codename was Azul. He blew an operation to kill Spanish diplomat Alano Monuz. Conklin sent you in to finish the job and then-" her throat had gotten too tight. She couldn't go on. Her eyes dropped to Jason's hands. Realized too late how much that gesture betrayed her thoughts. Her eyes flew to Jason's face.

He'd noticed. Of course, he'd noticed. Jason had sagged as if he'd been punched in the gut with a tire iron. His face. Dear god, the look of pain on his face! It made her ache to see how much she'd hurt him. "I'm so sorry."

"Conklin had me kill one of us?" His fists clenched and unclenched.

"I don't think Conklin could afford to report a failure." She'd told Jason what she's put together.

He'd believed her.

Her throat dry, Nicky went to the bathroom to get a drink of water.

Jason's head was down. She recognized that look. He was considering options, thinking things through. Then he'd looked up at her.

A space, more than physical, divided them. Three steps and Nicky could have been in his arms. Some part of her had been frozen, unsure. She couldn't ask that final question. _What would you do if Conklin ordered you to kill me?_

No. Her fears had been ridiculous. She loved him, trusted him. She'd let her doubts go. Jason wouldn't hurt her. She made an effort to let him know how much she cared, despite everything else. They'd never said those three words to each other. Their future had always been too tentative to make any declarations or to make plans. She couldn't break that unspoken agreement, even now. "I was so worried about you. Afraid you'd been hurt."

Jason said nothing, his eyes fixed on her. He was waiting.

"I'm sorry. Why does this have to be so hard?" Nicky felt tears surface. Angry at herself, she turned away to hide them. "It's just that I knew Azul. Now, he's dead and you-"

Nicky heard a door close and spun around.

Jason was gone.

It was useless to go after him. Nicky collapsed to the floor, bereft. How could she have let it happen? All she'd wanted was to be with him. All she'd done was hurt him.

It was the last time she'd seen Jason or spoken to him before he'd disappeared.

Nicky had waited, impatient for his next scheduled physical check-up. She'd been afraid to leave a note, afraid that she'd find one that told her to that Jason didn't want to see her again outside the job.

Nicky had lost her chance when Conklin intervened with another operation for Jason. In Marseilles. Her last contact with Jason had been via email. An impersonal request and delivery location for diving gear. She'd arranged for its shipment and wished she could have brought it in person. Let him know how much she loved him. All she'd longed for was a chance to set things right.

She never got the chance.

Jason, her Jason, never came back.


	12. Mirror Man

**Winter Bourne**

**Chapter 12 "Mirror Man"**

_Jason Bourne_

Munich was a cold city in winter. The cold suited Jason's mood. He'd taken a circuitous route from New York to Mexico to Morocco and then to Luxemburg before taking the last leg to Germany. He'd changed his appearance and identity twice along the five day trip. The time worked in his favor since the trip to Munich had given him more time to heal.

He'd bought a dirt-cheap laptop at a shop that specialized in rebuilding computers before he'd left New York. He'd spent the majority of the trip reading the contents of the thumb drive Pamela Landy had given him. She was as thorough as he'd expected.

The content of the last file had stunned him.

Pamela had arranged for Marie's remains to be sent with an escort to Frankfurt, Germany to be buried alongside her mother. Pamela had notified Marie's brother in Jason's name, so that her brother could fly in from Paris to attend a memorial service she'd arranged. Also in Jason's name.

It had moved him. It had moved him even though he knew Pamela was a calculating CIA officer with ulterior motives and decades of experience in manipulating people.

Today was Marie's funeral service. The newspapers, still reporting on the ongoing Congressional committee investigating Treadstone and Blackbriar had picked up a local report about it. CNN had tried to interview Marie's brother, but he'd refused to speak to them. A cluster of major news organizations were already at the funeral home, wondering on the air if David Webb, once called Jason Bourne would appear.

Jason could be in Frankfurt in an hour.

He never considered going to the ceremony. He'd honored Marie's memory in the only way he could. He'd always cherish every hour he'd spent with her. Yet, just being in the same country where the name Jason Bourne was being discussed again made him feel uneasy, as if he were pushing his safety to the limit. He was in Munich because Paz was here, and he had a lead on Nicky.

Jason had to pretend that this was just another day. Without any appetite, Jason ate handfuls of uncooked whole grain oatmeal straight from the box and swallowed it down with unsweetened hot black tea. He finished breakfast with a locally grown apple. To avoid the nagging that his unconscious would start, he did his dental hygiene routine. Then he took his vitamins.

Someday perhaps he could take them without remembering that he'd killed a man using just such a simple device.

The target had been a health fanatic who was an active PETA supporter. It had been easy for Jason to think of an appropriate death, harder to set up. It had taken weeks to work out the details. Substituting the victim's vitamins with ones containing a lethal dosage of vitamin B wasn't sufficient, he'd had to make it appear that the target had purchased and handled a bottle containing a super-strong vitamin B supplement in order to make it look as if Bob had made a simple mistake in misjudging the correct dosage instead of taking a toxic dose without knowing. Then Jason had had to replace the tampered pills with the regular ones, just in case some cop suspected something was off and tested all the victim's vitamins.

Such deaths weren't unknown. Several vegetarians died every year from vitamin B overdoses as they tried to make up for the lack of meat in their diets. The cops had investigated and their coroner had reported the target's death as accidental. Conklin had been particularly pleased with the method.

To distract himself from what was happening in Frankfurt, Jason started exercising, hoping that he would wear himself from what was happening in Frankfurt. After a solid two hours of working out, sweat was running into his eyes. Jason ignored the sting of salt, pressing himself to complete another three push-ups. _Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, two hundred. Done_. His left shoulder ached. A slight hitch in the regular smooth motion had grown more noticeable near the end of the push-ups.

Jason went into the bathroom, yanking his perspiration soaked t-shirt off to check his shoulder. These days, he avoided his reflection in the mirror. Something about the look in his own eyes disturbed him. Keeping his gaze glued onto his shoulder's reflection, he shrugged, then rotated the arm, tensing and stretching the muscles. Sore, but the kind of ache that told him it was healing. He ran a finger over the lumpy scar. It had hurt like a son of a bitch to get shot. The pain hadn't gotten any better when he'd treated the wound in Moscow. While the bullet had gone straight through his shoulder, it had done more than shred flesh and muscle. The main tendons and connective tissue that made his arm work had been damaged. Foreign materials, like the wool from his coat, had been dragged along by the bullet and embedded into the wound. He'd dug out what he could, an agonizing procedure despite the local anesthetic he'd used, but he'd left Moscow knowing he needed a doctor.

Stealing a car, he'd driven far enough outside Moscow to avoid the pursuit from the city cops. He'd then taken a series of trains and buses to Warsaw, Poland. The city had become a plastic surgery capital where middle class woman from all over the world came for cheap face-lifts and liposuction. While in Moscow, he'd stolen enough drugs to keep himself functioning while he reached his destination. It had taken him a full day to find a likely target, a surgeon who ran a well-staffed clinic. The doctor was facing divorce, with a past that the newspapers hinted was more than sordid. He was a wealthy man who would be much less wealthy when his divorce was final. Jason had liked what he found, a surgeon with loose morals and a money problem. His instincts had been sure the doctor would appreciate a chunk of money that no divorce lawyer would ever be able to find.

Despite the certainty that he'd found the right doctor, and the realization that an infection, despite his care, had set into his wound, Jason had been concerned about trusting his life to this surgeon. He'd be vulnerable while on the operating table. Yet, even without the infection, he needed the surgery or he'd be permanently crippled.

In the end, he'd gone in with a cover story as a marine parts distributor from the Netherlands. In Dutch, he'd sworn that the damage was from a fluke hunting accident that he didn't want to get back to his boss, since he was supposed to have been attending a conference on new ignition technologies. Jason didn't think the doctor believed his story, but the doctor did believe in the thick stacks of euros Jason pulled out of his bag. A promise for a similar amount wired to a new Swiss account after a successful operation sealed the deal. The doctor got a big chunk of money and Jason got a shoulder that would be fully functional. It had been worth every euro.

The doctor had warned him that it would take time to heal. Jason had pushed it, unable to wait longer than six weeks before launching himself back into the world to track down Treadstone's creators and to find his own past. It had been Simon Ross's articles in the British left-wing paper, _The Guardian_, that had brought Jason out of hiding so soon. Ross's articles had been like an earthquake under his feet - the world had literally changed for him that day. His life as Jason Bourne and the dirty work he'd done for the CIA had been exposed to the world. Jason had known immediately what had happened, that someone inside Treadstone had talked to Ross. It had started him on the path to find the truth about himself and begun the deconstruction of Blackbriar.

The truth. The cost had been higher than he'd ever thought. Now, after everything he'd gone through since the day he'd met Simon Ross, a sore shoulder was nothing.

_I'm ready now, ready for whatever will come_, Jason told himself. Escaping his conscious control, his gaze darted up to check the truth of those words in the mirror.

_No_. Jason's mouth dried. He recognized that look. A look he'd worn since he'd lost Marie. He wrenched his gaze away from what the mirror revealed; a deep blankness was waiting for him behind those eyes. A comforting blanket of nothingness, a retreat ready to fold over his mind and hide the aching consequences of _knowing_. He'd thought that regaining his memory would make his life better. Recovering his memories had been nothing like what he'd expected.

He knew who he'd been. Remembered that he'd once been a man called David Webb. Yet instead of seamless memories, instead of becoming that younger self, all he had were memories like flip-cards of scenes from another life, more like still pictures from a half-remembered movie than anything he could emotionally attach to. A bike he'd received one Christmas when he was very young. Roller-skating across the concrete floor of a green painted house, but he couldn't remember his room or the city he'd grown up in. Standing in a room with his hand over his heart taking an oath of service for the US Army. Snatches of faces, of voices. He couldn't describe his mother's face, but he knew that he'd recognize her picture. He knew that she was gone, like his father, but couldn't remember why.

The clearest memories where the ones he least wanted. Those nightmarish days in New York City where he'd stopped being David Webb. It was odd now to know that his younger, more innocent self could have felt such passion, such a desire to serve. It seemed more incredible that David Webb had continued to trust people who'd tortured him. That he'd accepted self-immolation as a necessity.

His memories as Jason Bourne? _God_. Worse. They were much worse than he feared when he tried to knit together the loose threads with Marie. A sensation, an internal pressure that made his stomach clench and heave as those fatal memories, pricked with regret and guilt as sharp as any blade, overwhelmed him. Shuddering, he fought a sudden internal battle no less fierce and intense than any hand-to-hand combat with another human.

He drifted there, before the mirror, struggling against an enemy he couldn't name, but knowing that if he lost, he'd never resurface from the blackness that urged him to drown in nothingness.

_Marie_. Jason breathed her name, an anchor thrown out in desperation to hold back the waves sweeping him away. Her voice, murmuring soft reassurances in the dark of a hot Goa night, '... s_omeday, you'll remember something good'_.

A flash of another woman's face, a girl with caramel hair and deep brown eyes. Unexpected sweetness plucked from a life otherwise barren of kindness.

_Nicky_.

A sacrifice made.

A debt owed.

The determination to save that one life shifted the balance in this fight of conscience against memory. He was stronger now than he'd been the day he'd plunged off Wombosi's yacht. Knew what he was, what he'd done, but knew too that forgiveness was possible. Another memory made that more than a wish. Nicky's hand, gentle on his, revealing her sympathy even after witnessing the ugly way he'd killed Desh.

Another woman's face. Pamela Landy sitting across from him, earnest, her own fears near the surface. Near to begging for help. Another sacrificed life.

It was wrong to give in. A betrayal. Other people are depending on me. He couldn't lost this fight and lose himself again.

_No. I will not forget again_. It was an oath.

A patchwork made strong by an active will exerted its own pressure. An internal lid clamped down. Panting, Jason forced himself straight. Met his own eyes in the reflection without flinching.

A tight nod. A commitment made.

Jason turned away from the mirror. No more running away.

Time to find Paz.


	13. Consequences

**Winter Bourne**

**Chapter 13 "Consequences"**

_**Pamela Landy**_

_Unintended consequences_.

The phrase kept creeping into Pamela Landy's thoughts. She couldn't have imagined that one decision she'd made had started an ongoing series of catastrophes that had led to this moment. She was standing outside a stolen van with a half-dead Blackbriar assassin tied up in the back, staring down an unfamiliar New Jersey street in the vain hope that her tentative ally, one Jason Bourne, hadn't really abandoned her.

_Idiot_. Another word that crept out of her subconscious. Then she wasn't sure if she meant Bourne, or herself. Shivering from more than the cold, Pamela got behind the driver's wheel and cranked the heat up. _I know that you can never have everything under control. I know it's impossible to plan for every contingency. It just never occurred to me that making that initial contact with Bourne would end up like this. Thought the worst thing that could happen is that I'd be looking for a new job – not that I'd be in the target of an assassination attempt_.

Pamela started the engine. _First things first_. She wanted to find out what had happened to Tom. Tom was supposed to have taken a double to her apartment to throw Basnight off. She hadn't wanted Basnight to have any clue that she'd been trying to talk to Jason. The meeting with Jason hadn't gone according to plan either. Pamela had had to cut her planned spiel short when he told her that she was in danger.

At his warning, she'd called Tom. When he hadn't answered, she'd contacted a CIA specialized response team to find out what had happened to him. Then she'd called her office to arrange a pick-up. She'd watched in horror as her driver was gunned down by a Blackbriar operative, but he'd been taken down in turn by Jason. It didn't take a genius to figure out that someone had bugged her office phonelines, or worse, one of her team members had betrayed her. Maybe intentionally, maybe not. The anger that had been building in her since Berlin had solidified into a cold determination to root out the people who were destroying the integrity, the soul of the agency where she'd spent her adult working life.

A groan from the back of the van reminded her that she had another problem to deal with. Her stomach turned over remembering the battering he'd taken. She couldn't quite bring herself to hate him. He was just another pawn, just as Jason had been. It'd make her life easier if she could bring him to a regular hospital. Dump him and run. Even if he were willing to cooperate, she doubted that he'd know anymore than Paz had about who was running Blackbriar. And now that his mission had failed, Blackbriar would cut him loose, just as they had Paz. She couldn't do it. All anyone would see is a desperately wounded man. She had a vivid idea of what could happen if the Blackbriar operative woke up, reembering only that he'd been attacked.

Pamela swung the van out into traffic, heading back towards New York. As she did, something slid across on the passenger seat. A glint caught her eye. She spared a glance to check it. Bourne had left her the Blackbriar assassin's gun. _That's so odd_. Bourne seemed to have some phobia about weapons. He kept disarming himself. No, that wasn't right. Maybe it was because he could use almost anything as a weapon that he didn't feel the need to constantly carry a gun. Another question she'd hadn't gotten a chance to ask him.

_Damn it_, Pamela scolded herself. _Stop trying to figure out Jason Bourne. Focus on what needs to be done right now_. All right. Of all the people she knew at the CIA, who could she really trust? As she ran through the short list of people who had the knowledge and the authority to help her, another pang of guilt and worry hit her. If Tom had been hurt, she'd never stop blaiming herself. She'd feel a lot better if she knew he was all right.

Ten miles away from where Bourne had left her, Pamela pulled into a parking lot of a well-lit strip mall. With a twenty-four hour Shaw's supermarket, it was easier to blend in. She'd made her decision. Hoping it was the right one, she called the same CIA emergency number and left a very specific message for Sloane with the operative who answered. Then she walked away as fast as she could.

She took the gun with her.

"How are you feeling, Pam?" Sloane asked.

"Paranoid."

"You've certainly gotten someone worried."

"I've been thinking about that," Pamela said. She took a moment to look around Sloane's office. It had been an ordeal getting here, but she'd been right to trust him. Six hours after she'd left the van, she'd been brought back safe to Langley. He'd taken her ideas and made it work. "It seems odd that anyone would target me. The analysis team has yet to forward anything useful."

"So you said before. Maybe it's your habit of contacting Bourne that has someone worried."

Pamela tried not to visbily wince. She hadn't had a chance to tell Sloane about her meeting with Jason. Before she could update him a knock on the door interupted her. Tom Conti stuck his head through the door. Pamela didn't bother trying to hide her smile. It was one of the ironies of the world that she had Basnight to thank for Tom's well being. Basnight had ordered a team to pick her up last night so that she could debrief "Jason Bourne" after Basnight's successful capture after the CNN interview. She rather suspected that Basnight had just wanted to rub her face into his victory. Of course, Basnight's own people had subsequently told him that their captive was an imposter. By then, Tom and the 'pretender' Pam were already back at Langley.

She was thinking of sending Sloane a nice gift basket.

"… summarizing the research up to five days ago," Tom said. "We brought in a fresh team to review the material."

"And?" Sloane asked.

Tom shrugged. "Nothing that stands out. A few possibilities that they're pursuing. That's it."

"Thanks, Tom." Pamela gave him another smile. "Why not get a few hours sleep?"

"Sounds like a good idea."

As the door shut behind Tom, Sloane turned back to Pamela. "You don't sound dissappointed."

Pamela shrugged. "The amount of personnel data they're reviewing is enormous. I've recommended newer analysis tools, but even with these, most of the work's still comes down to someone actually reading a file and making a judgement. I knew it'll take a while just to complete the summaries. I appreciate the extra people you've authorized."

"You never did get around to telling me where you were last night."

He was doing it again. Like he had during their last meeting. Shifting topics abruptly, as if this would throw her off balance. _It's just counter-productive_. Too bad she couldn't tell him to knock it off. _Let's see how you like this answer_. "Meeting with Jason Bourne."

Dead silence. Sloane's jaw didn't quite drop, but it was a close call. Pamela enjoyed the moment, but she kept that amusement off her face.

"You what?"

Pamela raised an eyebrow at his explosive tone. It was amazing what a solid night of sleep and a decent meal would do to your self-confidence. She folded her arms when Sloane's glare didn't fade. She's stopped being intimidated by gruff men before she turned thirty. Keeping her tone calm, she repeated, "I suggested that he help us." She summarized their meeting, then sat back, waiting.

"Are you insane? What if he'd taken you hostage? What if he'd killed you?"

"He had a chance to do either of those before. He didn't." Pamela shrugged. "Besides, you told me to bring him in. Isn't this the best way to do it?"

Sloane ignored that reminder. Pamela wasn't surprised. Most people didn't like being reminded of inconvenient facts. He didn't even try to mention that he'd really ordered another fate for Bourne.

"You lied to me."

"About?"

"You said a law enforcement agent rescued you from your attacker."

"I consider Bourne to be one of us."

"You're not authorized to make those decisions."

"You gave me that authorization," Pamela let some iron into her voice as she added, "Besides, Bourne accepted a job I offered."

Instead of screaming at her or pounding the desk, Sloane folded his arms across his chest and appeared to take several deep breaths. She was impressed with his self-control. She'd prefer to be more conciliatory, but some men took compromise as an admittion of weakness, and she sensed Sloane was one of them.

"Ms. Landy, did it not occur to you that it's an embarrassment to have that man brought back into the fold? It's a tactic admission of our guilt! It's condoning his commission of a series of crimes against this government, not to mention at least two other governments and not the least, the murder of two CIA operatives!"

Pamela kept eye contact, refusing to back down. She didn't answer for a couple of heartbeats. When she spoke it was with a deliberate calm and a softer tone. "Murder? No. Self-defense, yes. And what better amends to make then to allow Bourne a chance to redeem himself?"

"Are you delusional?"

"Wouldn't it be less embarrassing for us if it were known that he's back under our control? Instead of continuing to look incompetent for being unable to capture him?"

"You can't think that having Bourne testify to Congress will make us look good?"

An interesting point for him to make. Did it mean Sloane's resistence to the idea was weakening? "Sir, I don't have all the answers. I know that I'm not the only one who feels strongly that the CIA inflicted grievous, deliberate and persistent harm against David Webb. A debt is owed."

"Do you know how many guidelines you've broken? You think there won't be consequences?"

"I didn't think I had much to lose."

"Pam-"

"You gave me a job, hoping that I couldn't do it," Pamela cut him off. "I want to know why. You could have found an easier way to fire me."

Sloane glared faded. "They told me you were annoying."

"They?" Pamela didn't expect him to answer that, and he didn't.

"Where did you send Bourne?"

Pamela hesitated. Then she shrugged mentally. If I don't have a clue where he is right now, there's no way anyone else could find him either. "I sent him to find and bring in Nicole Parsons."

Sloane ran a hand down his face.

Pamela was sure that his mumbling was a string of swear words. "Sir, it made sense to me since Bourne has a personal connection to her."

"I want a report on my desk by tomorrow morning with every detail of your meeting with him. Explain, in writing, what the hell you thought you were going to accomplish. All the options you considered. Everything you told Bourne. And I want you to justify going over my head to get Bourne and that girl a Presidential pardon!"

Pamela hadn't heard that it was final. She smiled. "Congressman Hedel initiated the process when I was testifying before Congress. Before you were my boss."

"Don't tell me it was his idea."

Pamela didn't say anything. She might have nudged Hedel, but to the man's credit, he'd been as outraged at what had been done to Bourne and the other Treadstone operatives as she'd been. Knowing that Hedel was not a fan of the CIA and was using this as an opportunity to give them a black eye was simply part of the price. Pamela hadn't minded. The CIA deserved it.

"Do I have access to the Blackbriar operative who attacked me?"

Sloane stared at her. "No. Now go away."

"Yes, sir."

Five hours later, Pamela had gone through eighteen more files and had her detailed report for Sloane done. Histories, financial reports, security back checks. Summaries of anyone who might be able to take over Blackbriar. She couldn't find any definitive answers.

Untouched for too long, Pamela's screensaver came up onscreen. It was the looped fight of Jason's fight with Vosen's men in the back corridors of Waterloo station. Getting to her feet, Pamela stretched, trying to get the tension out of her shoulders and neck.

Idly she watched the fight again. The reminder of Jason made her think of the assassinations he'd done at the behest of Treadstone. That tripped off another thought. _Wait a minute._ She scrambled through the files to pull out a different kind of summary Tom had made for her. A list of Jason's 'jobs'. She ran a finger down the list, checking off the method of death. _I was right._

"Something been nagging me about that attack on me."

"Meaning you've found something more to worry about than just the fact that there may be a team of assassins after you?"

"No, that no. I realized something interesting about how he tried to kill me. He was going to shoot me dead right there on the street. With other people walking around." Pamela held up the list of Bourne's kills, then tapped the stack of Treadstone and Blackbriar operations files. "That's not their standard operations procedure."

Tom nodded. "Right. They're a sneaky bunch of bastards. They're supposed to make the deaths look like accidents."

Pamela felt a spurt of excitement in her stomach. "It occurred to me we're looking in the wrong direction for Blackbriar's new boss."

"Why do you say that?"

"Maybe it wasn't one of Kramer's or Vosen's peers who took control of Blackbriar." Pamela watched Tom's face to gauge his reaction when she added, "What it was actually one or more of the Blackbriar operatives who decided to take over?"

Tom didn't look convinced. "After all that conditioning they got? Yeah, Bourne broke his, but he had to go crazy to do it."

"Bourne's not crazy." Pamela heard the firmness in her voice and wondered at her own conviction. She would never forget the look on his face after she'd asked what name she should call him. She modified her internal judgment to 'not completely crazy.'

"Blackbriar changed Treadstone's initial program, right? Maybe they got some results that they hadn't expected." Tom cocked his head at her. "If what you say is true, why would they change the way they perform their missions?"

Pamela pinched the bridge of her nose. Tom has a good point. "Their priorities would have changed. Maybe being invisible isn't important to them."

The phone rang. Tom picked it up. He lifted a hand to her to keep Pamela from leaving. After a quick conversation, he hung up. "That was Sloane's secretary. You have an appointment with a Doctor Meneda at two o'clock. Sloane wants an updated psychiatric evaluation of Bourne."

Not good news. If she wasn't very careful, she could sabotage Jason's chances. A carelessly chosen word, a hesitation, and the shrink could decide that Jason was too unstable to be trustworthy. If Bourne would just call her, Pamela would feel a lot better before going into talking to a shrink.

As if sensing her concern, Tom asked, "Heard anything from Bourne?"

Pamela shook her head. "I'm hoping that he's planning on meeting Paz before contacting me."

Tom gave her a level look. "If he does at all."

That wouldn't be good for her at all. If she couldn't prove Bourne was at least willing to talk to her, she was going to be in real trouble.

Four thousand miles away, Jason Bourne was standing on a roofline, his binoculars fixed on a man strolling through Munich's _Olympiapark_. The man turned, his face coming onto view.

Jason had found Paz.


	14. MashUps

**Winter Bourne**

All - My apologies for not posting more often. Sorry too that this "chapter" is quite short, but wanted to let people know that I'm continuing this story. Lots of excuses, but the primary one is that I've been wrestling with the plot. Now, should I have Paz be a good guy or a bad guy? Haven't quite decided since it could be quite fun either way. Thanks for all the positive reviews!

**Chapter 14 "Mash-Up"**

_Jason Bourne_

Tourists ambling through Munich's _OlympiaPark_, a reminder of the glory days of the 1972 Summer Olympics, were unaware of the man watching them. The watcher was camouflaged behind a forest of antennas and advertisements on a rooftop half a mile away. His binoculars made controlled movements across the tourists enjoying the scenic views, then swept the neighboring buildings and accompanying streets in random patterns. Most of the time, the binoculars were focused on one individual, a good-looking young man with mildly Euro-Indian features who could have been a native of some dozen different countries. This young man was wearing blue jeans and a navy knee length jacket, with a medium sized black knapsack slung over one shoulder. He carried a water bottle and appeared to be waiting to meet someone. His left hand brushed along his waist, an unconscious movement that had been repeated once before in the forty-five minutes that he'd been under observation.

Satisfied that he'd learned enough, Jason Bourne lowered the binoculars and retreated to cover. He made entries in the notebook he carried everywhere: subject ambidextrous (gun on left hip, purchased drink and drank same with right). No backup noted. Has a tell that revealed presence of gun - weakness potentially exploitable?

Jason tucked the notebook into his jacket. It hadn't been hard to find Paz. Pamela Landy had set up a fake accounting management business web-site, called "Northholm Accounting Firm" to use as a way for the three of them to contact each other. Paz's cover as a sales representative allowed him to enter his locations and potential meet sites and times under the cover of recruiting new customers.

It was clear that Landy trusted Paz.

Jason didn't.

That exchange of a life for a life that had happened between them in New York was an oddity. A courtesy extended during lulls in the violence of the chase, under a pressure cooker of fear, adrenaline and uncertainty. Perhaps Paz had made a decision that he'd later come to regret. Perhaps everything he'd told Landy was a lie.

Jason left the building and took a taxi to the nearest subway station. He didn't go back to the tiny apartment he was renting. Instead, he took an informal survey of the city using its public transportation, taking his time, getting a feel for its neighborhoods. During the trip, Jason was doing something he rarely did. He was waffling on making a decision. His uncertain memories left him with questions that he burned for Paz to answer, questions about the training they'd both received. He wanted to know more about the drugs that had been used on him and the controls that Jason feared were still lingering in his mind. Most of all, Paz could be valuable in helping him find Nicky sooner.

On the other hand, every time Jason had had a one-on-one meeting with another CIA trained assassin, no matter what his intentions had been, the result had been deadly. This meeting would be tense, on both their sides.

Whatever kind of a man David Webb had been, from the day Dr. Hirsch put a gun in his hand, the man who thought of himself now as Jason Bourne had a patina of hard-won experience built into his brain, his muscles, and a set of trained reactions from Treadstone burned so deeply into his psyche, that they had become instincts he couldn't fight.

Yes, he knew what he was, and he was dangerous. The thought made his mouth tighten. He could think of a dozen other things he'd like to believe about himself, about the man he could be, given half a chance, but ignoring reality didn't change anything.

Putting himself in dangerous situations had resulted in bad things happening to a lot of people. Putting himself in a position of weakness against a man whose skills he feared were at least the equal of his own would heighten every one of those highly trained instincts for survival. He knew, deep in his bones, that meeting with Paz now would end up with one of them dead.

A child's shriek of laughter brought Jason back to the present. The subway slowed to a stop to let passengers off. Jason slid into a worn plastic seat, pressing fingertips against his temples to relieve the pressure of another miserable headache.

No. Every instinct he had wouldn't allow him a simple solution. Meeting over coffee at Starbucks wasn't going to work. Jason needed confirmation that Paz wasn't working some deep ruse to snare him.

A bright yellow poster covered in figures dancing caught his Jason's eye as the subway bounced around a corner. It advertised a musical production of _Grease_ at _Gärtnerplatz_ Theatre. He considered the possibilities it presented. Yes, that would work. It'd work very well. At the next stop near an Internet café, Jason got off.

Jason had a special invitation for Paz to post at the Northholm web-site.


	15. MashUps Part 2

**Winter Bourne**

**Chapter 14 "Mash-Up"**

_This is the first chapter where I've been really struggling with the plot. The rest was fun to write – this part, not so much. The problem is Paz and his knowledge of Blackbriar. He could tell Jason too much, and frankly, a Jason who has reached his nirvana of self-awareness would be rather dull. A tormented Jason is so much more fun, yes? So, I think I've found a way out of my particular maze. Again, an apology for the shortness of the material. Now that I have my footing, I should be able to continue at a more rapid pace. _

_**Jason Bourne**_

That feeling was creeping back, the nagging sensation of something incomplete. Jason ignored it. He was skimming through Landy's files, giving his subconscious time to soak up patterns or connections that had escaped his conscious review. He lingered on the short file Landy had compiled on Paz. _Paz García_. A fragment of his conscious was amused that the first name meant "peace". The last name sparked a mental recitation of facts about the surname's prevalence in certain countries as well as culture clues that might be useful. Those cultural values could be used as emotional pressure points against Paz. Stereotypical characteristics of such a culture were a string sense of personal honor, internal self-image regarding masculinity and pride. Religion associated with the name was primarily Catholic, with its philosophy of redemption. Had any or all of these factors played a factor in Paz's decision not to shoot him on that rooftop in New York? The thin file on Paz gave Jason no insight into the man.

While Landy had had Paz debriefed before sending him out to find Nicky, nothing about Blackbriar or Paz's training had been revealed. Jason was tempted to call Landy to ask if she'd stripped out that specific information as a lure. She had to know how much Jason ached to know more about what had been done to him. He had some hope, no matter how futile, that if he understood it, perhaps he could undue the worst of it.

Jason shut down the computer. No. It seemed unlikely that Landy had deliberately withheld information from him about the training he and Paz had shared. She already knew his weakness, what button to push to reel him in. He'd blown any attempt to pretend he didn't care when he'd visibly reacted to Landy's statement that she'd sent Paz after Nicky. Jason shook his head. No, that wasn't true. The moment he'd killed Desh, that was when he'd let the CIA know that he'd kill to keep Nicky safe.

It was time to go.

The theater crowd had left the _Gärtnerplatz_ Theatre. The actors straggled out not too much later than that, greeting fans who lingered near the back doors. The street grew quiet. A cleaning crew came and went. The marquee lights went out. The restaurants closed down. Hours went by. A light drizzle began to fall. The smell of wet pavement and garbage filled the air. Across the street from the theatre a door opened and a figure stepped outside. One shadow among other shadows, the figure didn't move for long moments, then turned away.

Half a block further the figure put on a burst of speed and darted into an alleyway. Nothing happened for an hour. Jason settled down to wait, too old a hand to be betrayed into action in a game of cat and mouse. He wasn't surprised when the shadow re-emerged to hustle away down the sidewalk, emerging in and out of the shadows. He was more than ready.From his vantage point high above the street, Jason Bourne raised his silenced rifle. It was a clean shot, straight to the left shoulder. Paz took another step and collapsed.

Jason broke down the rifle and was out of the building in under four minutes. He raced to another vantage point, anxious to get off the rooftop in case someone was triangulating his shot to find his position. Safe from observation, he waited in the dark, barely breathing, every fiber of his being straining to sense an enemy force that might appear around him in revenge for their fallen comrade. What Jason found interesting was what happened in the next twenty minutes.

Nothing.

Satisfied, Jason started the beat-up, ancient car he'd bought two days ago. He stopped beside the body still slumped on the wet sidewalk. Jason stripped Paz of his gun, then emptied his pockets, stuffing the papers he found into his own jacket. Using plastic tie-straps, he secured Paz's hands and feet, then dragged him into the car. The car's chassis was old, but the engine was new. He pushed hard, weaving into and out of traffic, as he drove west toward the Havel river. Despite stopping once to give Paz an injection, he reached _Südhafen_ port and the nearby warehouse he'd rented in under an hour.

When he was securing Paz to the chair bolted to the concrete floor, Jason spared a thought for Landy. She wasn't going to be happy to hear what he'd done to her new recruit. Jason felt he hadn't had a choice. It was the gun. It'd changed things. Why had Paz been armed? In their world, carrying a gun was an advertisement for danger – unless you were on a job that called for that tool. Had Paz's training been different enough from his own? Jason shook his head in silent denial. No. In his earlier confrontations with Desh and Paz they'd acted the way he'd expected. Paz must have been responding some cue. It made Jason uneasy not to know what the cue was – it was too easy to imagine that Paz had been planning to use the gun on him.

Paz groaned. Jason clicked off most of the lights and moved back. His turn to become a shadow.

This was going to be a very interesting conversation.


	16. Mashups Part 3

**Winter Bourne**

**Chapter 14 "Mash-Up", Part 4**

_**Jason Bourne**_

The warehouse was an empty concrete shell except for the equipment Jason had brought with him. He'd spent the last few days readying it for this interview. Jason knew what a Treadstone agent was capable of, and took every precaution he could to ensure that Paz wouldn't be able to escape. Maybe the plethora of plastic tie straps binding Paz to the heavy metal chair bolted to the floor was overkill, but Jason intended to survive this interview. He even had hopes that Paz would survive it as well.

"Code in," Jason said.

Silence. Paz didn't raise his head from where it hung down to his chest, though Jason knew that he was awake. Coming out from the drug had slowed Paz's wits enough so that there was a gap between his becoming awake and realizing he needed to pretend otherwise. A tiny gap, but enough for Jason to notice.

"You're awake. Code in."

The silence continued.

Jason waited, walking through the options as if he were in Paz's place. Paz had no idea who'd kidnapped him. The code Jason had asked for was standard ops for the CIA and would be meaningless to an enemy. Paz would then assume that he hadn't been kidnapped by agents of another country. On the other hand, why would the CIA kidnap one of their own? Paz couldn't suspect Landy. She'd had Paz under her thumb back at Langley and had let him walk out. Who remained? Blackbriar. Blackbriar, who used CIA protocols, just as Treadstone had done. Blackbriar, who would have every reason to doubt Paz's loyalty. Or – and this is what Jason wanted to know – maybe Blackbriar didn't doubt Paz at all.

An answer. No answer. It would tell Jason something about Paz in any case. Jason was patient. He waited, in the darkness, his eyes focused on Paz's every move, every breath. Ten minutes crept by, then twenty. Jason saw a shift, subtle, in the torso. Paz was giving up.

When Paz lifted his head, his face revealed nothing, but his eyes darted around the darkness. He said, "Montpelier."

It was the code Landy had given Paz for 'under duress'. Jason pressed his lips together. He'd wanted a reply that was less ambiguous. If Paz had given him a code that wasn't on Landy's play list, Jason would be damn sure Paz was still working for Blackbriar, no matter what he'd told Landy. Jason stepped into the light blazing down overhead, right into Paz's direct line of sight.

"You?" Paz couldn't hide his surprise. His muscles bunched as he made a titanic struggle to get out of the chair. "Why are you doing this? I let you live. We're on the same side."

Jason ignored the questions. He wasn't there to provide answers. He had his own questions that he desperately needed to have answered before he let this stranger, this assassin get any closer to Nicky. "What happened on that rooftop in New York? After I jumped." Bourne stood above Paz, his arms folded across his chest. He'd debated stripping Paz before tying him to the chair, but decided against it. This man may be an ally.

"What?"

A stalling question. Jason chose to elaborate. "Vosen was your Blackbriar controller. When you didn't shoot me, you betrayed him. That was Blackbriar headquarters and Vosen had a full team with him. How did you leave that building alive?"

"Too many witnesses," Paz said. "I told Landy. They tried to kill me two days later."

"I read your report." Jason deliberately softened his voice. "Watching television, right? You noticed something and got out just in time."

"Right."

Jason leaned in closer. "What were you watching?"

Paz's face went slack. Just for a second Jason thought he saw panic.

"News," Paz recovered. "CNN."

"What show on CNN?"

"How the hell would I remember that?"

Good choice for a lie. These days almost everyone got CNN and it was on twenty-four hours a day. But had Paz made a mistake? Jason retreated to his computer set-up out of sight of his prisoner. He had the address where Paz claimed to have been living. A cheap boarding house in Newark. Jason found the web site. It didn't have enough information, but there was a telephone number. He called the landlord, asked one question, and then hung up.

Jason moved to stand in front of Paz, who had heard everything.

"What did you think the landlord told me?" Jason asked. "No cable. No satellite. No CNN. A clumsy lie."

Paz went blank again.

Interesting that Paz didn't try to talk his way out of it. He would have. Perhaps Blackbriar's training wasn't as similar to his own as he'd thought. "They sent you to Landy. Used her to get to me. Did you give Landy the idea to send you after Nicky? You knew that'd get my interest."

"It's your fault," Paz's calm dissolved. "Vosen told me all about you. You went soft. You screwed-up, then ran away. You kidnapped some poor girl and fucked with her mind until she thought she was the one helping you. Clinical. Then you got her killed."

The uncertainty in Paz that Jason had seen that night on the rooftop was gone. No moral self-awakening. Or one that hadn't lasted longer than a couple of days being re-inducted by Blackbriar. Maybe by Dr. Hirsch himself. Some midnight humor murmured that perhaps it would have worked out better if he'd dragged Paz off the roof with him. No, Paz belonged to Blackbriar, body and soul.

Jason, his muscles feeling stiff, walked back into darkness, circling round to the table behind Paz's back. He unzipped the carrying case of the Luger. In silence, he screwed on the silencer. His mouth was so dry. It took him two tries to say, "I'm sorry."

Paz knew what it meant. "Aren't you going to ask me about Nicky? I know where she is. Listen- "

Except Jason wasn't listening. Everything Paz would tell him would be a lie, an invitation to a trap set up and waiting to consume him, even without Paz being there as bait. A familiar coldness settled over Jason. His vision narrowing. Focus in tight on the mission. Salt stung his eyes. _It's not hot in here_. Confused, Jason ran his hand over his face. Cold beads of sweat stood on his forehead. '_It's what you are, Jason, a killer,'_ a dead man's voice - Abbott's voice, whispered. _But I'm not Jason anymore, am I_? He was shaking now, the gun trembling in his hand. No. He took a deep breath, then another. I have to do this. Kill him. For Nicky. Or she'll never be safe. Just as he turned back to Paz, a flicker of light on the table caught his eye. _Nothing_. _Just the cell phone recharging_.

_Wait. Cell phone_. A name leapt from the back of his mind. _Landy_. Jason reached out for phone as if it were a lifeline.

_Pamela Landy_

The courtyard within CIA headquarters was sheltered by tall brick walls that captured and held the warmth of the sun. Despite the snow piled over the buried flowerbeds, it was a pleasant place to take a break from her claustrophobic office. Pamela leaned back against the wooden bench, her eyes closed. Her unfinished lunch rested in her lap. The shrill ring of a cell phone startled her awake, her heart pounding. The remnant of her tuna sandwich went flying.

Pamela fumbled through her pockets. She snatched up the cell phone that she'd kept hidden on her person since Jason had left her in New Jersey. Jason hadn't given her a number to contact him, of course, but the phone had been a promise. "Landy."

"I have Paz."

The hair stood up on the back of Pamela's neck. The flat tone, the measured words, the timbre of Jason's voice warned Pamela that something was seriously wrong. It took her another second to process what Jason had said. _Her gut tightened._

"He's dirty," Bourne said. "He's still Blackbriar."

"I know." Pamela let irritation creep into her voice. "If you'd bothered to contact me earlier, I could've warned you."

A second went by without comment.

Pamela couldn't suppress a tiny smile. It wasn't often you could claim that you made Jason Bourne speechless. She kept her voice matter of fact as she continued, "Where is he? I'll have a pickup team there within nine hours."

"He's a threat."

"Was a threat. You've neutralized him." Pamela countered. Her voice was dry. "Believe me. After what you did in New York, our people will take every precaution. I need him. Alive."

Silence.

Pamela knew what it meant. He was waiting to be convinced. "We have much better drugs now than we did even five years ago. Better equipment too. If Paz knows where Nicky is, we'll know it too."

"How long?"

The practical thing to do was to bring Paz back to the States before questioning him. Pamela's gut told her that Jason needed an answer sooner than that. It'd cost a small fortune, but she could do it. Wincing at what this would do to her department's budget, she said without hesitation. "I'll bring the crew and equipment there. Once we're on the ground, I'd give it two days. Given that he's Blackbriar, a maximum of three."

A sigh rolled over the line. "_Südhafen_ port outside Munich. A warehouse. Forty-two _Helgoland_."

"It'd be helpful to have you there." Pamela didn't think he'd buy it for a second, but it was worth a try. "And I need a way to contact you."

"Don't leave Langley."

Now it was her turn to be silent.

"It's called delegation, Pam." Then he added, all amusement gone from his voice. "Nothing's changed. You'll be dead if you leave Langley."

"Jason-"

The phone went dead.

Pamela gathered the rest of her scattered lunch. She didn't have a lot of time to get all the arrangements made. At least it'd give her an excuse to put off the appointment with the shrink she'd been ordered to see. It'd give Tom would have a chance to run his own field ops. Not that retrieving a Blackbriar assassin turned mole and making him talk was a glamorous job. Then again, little or anything they did was glamorous. At least Jason had sounded something close to normal when he'd hung up. She didn't have time to think her way through it yet, but Pamela had a feeling that more than one life had been saved during that call.


	17. Shrink Test

**Winter Bourne**

**Chapter 15 "Shrink Test"**

_Pamela Landy_

Some would-be wit had stuck up a poster board on the break room refrigerator and scrawled across the top 'Blackbriar Hunt'. Underneath were two columns, one labeled '_Jason Bourne'_, the other '_CIA'_. Underneath Jason's name was the number three, under CIA, a zero.

Pamela lips twitched, but she kept her composure as she refilled her coffee cup, all too aware of the eyes watching, waiting for her reaction. Picking up a pen from a sign-up sheet for someone hawking caramel popcorn for yet another school fundraiser, Pamela scratched out the zero and wrote in a three under the CIA label, then wrote the names Vosen, Hirsch and Kramer inside parenthesis. Arresting these three men didn't evoke the same drama as Jason's far more violent captures, but they were CIA victories all the same. The snide voice in the back of Pamela's brain chimed in with a reminder that it had been Jason who'd given the CIA the information that had led to the arrests. Pamela shrugged it off. She considered it a victory since her superiors had taken public action, instead of hiding this fiasco of Blackbriar. She tapped the pen on Hirsch's name, regretting that he'd been killed. There was so much he could have told her about Treadstone. About what he'd done to warp one David Webb, former army captain, into a man like Jason Bourne.

"Pam?"

She turned around as Tom Cronin came in, almost quivering in excitement. "Everything's prepped. The team is flying out at six-forty."

"Don't take any chances with Paz," Pamela cautioned. Restraining herself from adding what could only be more unwanted advice, she smiled instead and held out her hand. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

She hated herself for it, but Pamela knew as she sent Tom out to Germany that he'd just become another pawn in the serious game she was playing with Jason. Every contact with Jason had been a window for her to see the way Jason thought, the depth of his paranoia, his unrelenting anger and distrust of the agency that had used and discarded him. That last face-to-face meeting in New York had been even more revealing. She was too strong willed to shudder at the recollection, but she'd seen the blank mask slip to reveal the cold killer in Jason's soul when he'd thought that she'd endangered Nicky.

Her cell phone chimed. A text reminder of an appointment with a shrink that Sloane had insisted on. Having run out of excuses, Pamela headed for the appointment. It wasn't as if this was the first time she'd seen a psychiatrist. After she'd seen Abbott blow his brains out in front of her, she'd been glad to talk to someone about it. Now however, these meetings were feeling more like harassment. Pamela wondered if her increasing annoyance had to do more with the shrink's passionate interest in one Jason Bourne rather than in Pamela's personal trauma.

Pamela took a seat opposite a new shrink, one Dr. Degan in one of the many small conference rooms scattered throughout the Langley complex. Aware of how much body language gave away, Pamela didn't cross her arms, her legs, and she fixed a gentle smile on her face, despite her intense desire to be elsewhere. She understood Sloane's logic. He believed that with enough information about Jason, the CIA would be able to get in front of him, instead of, as Sloane had put it '... follow a trail of broken bodies and smashed vehicles across three continents …". Pamela rubbed the space between her brows with one finger, trying to press away the tension, then regretted the tell immediately.

"A headache?" Dr. Degan asked.

"Yes." Pamela widened her smile. This meetings were like dealing with a lawyer, the less said the better. She didn't trust Sloane's intentions. Like Vosen and before him Abbot and Conklin, all they wanted was to make Jason disappear. They were afraid of what further damage Bourne would do to the CIA. If she could, Pamela wanted to convince Sloane that using Jason was a better option. Maybe convincing Dr. Degan would help.

"You know Director Sloane had approved my access to your operational files." The older man smiled at Pamela.

"Yes." Pamela added. "My understanding is that you want to update Bourne's psychological profile."

"That's right. I'm sure you can understand why I've been so anxious to talk to you. You're the only CIA whose talked to Bourne face-to-face since he walked out three years ago. You're a trained observer and I wanted your reactions."

Pamela nodded again, then added to herself, '_That's true only if you don't count Nicky Parsons'_.

"Do you think he's stable?" Dr. Degan asked.

Pamela didn't try to hide her surprise at the question. She gave herself time to think about it. That conversation in the elevator in New York had continued to haunt her. He hadn't known who he was, Jason or David. Yet, you should only judge a man by his actions. No doubt there. Pamela said, "Yes."

"Really? I'd have to disagree with you."

It was the tone that raised the hackles on Pamela's neck. Cool disdain. She added the pieces together and her gut told her what it mean. Sloane wasn't done trying to discredit Jason. Pamela had made significant progress, person by person, getting more buy-in and building support by telling the other side of Jason's story, the story that Abbott had successfully concealed. All Sloane had to do was to take anything Pamela said to the shrink and twist it as necessary to claim that Jason was too emotionally damaged to deal with.

Pamela sat up straight and folded her arms. "May I see your credentials?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm concerned about the way you've started this interview. Your behavior is unprofessional. You contradict my assertion with even asking for my rationale? This after acknowledging that I have the most current and complete data for such an assessment." Pamela stood up. "I'll reconsider talking with you after I've had a review conducted of your previous work."

She didn't slam the door behind her, but it was close. Her next stop was Sloane's office. Time for a little un-friendly chat.

_Jason Bourne_

In a warehouse outside Berlin, Jason Bourne was getting ready to run. He'd brought nothing with him beyond what he needed to keep Paz secured and a computer. Jason removed the hard drive and slid it into his knapsack. No one would be able to use the computer logs against him. The last thing to pack was the Luger. He put a fingertip on the cold metal of the barrel and considered it. If Blackbriar operated as Treadstone had, then he had to assume that Paz had backup here in Germany. A ghost whispered in his ear, a reminder of a man dying in a field outside Paris, '_We work alone. We always work alone_.' Impatient with himself, Jason pushed the memory away. Yes, he had always gone on the job alone, but he'd always had resources and an efficient organization behind him. Another memory flash, this time of a young woman with tawny hair, brown eyes and a flirtatious smile. _Nicky_. Another memory to push away. He couldn't deal with any more pain tonight.

The main problem he had to deal with was tied to the chair in front of him. Jason checked the IV dripping sedatives into Paz and upped the dosage. He had to assume that someone from Blackbriar was waiting to hear from Paz. When Paz didn't check in, Blackbriar would go on full alert. The search would intensify, with Blackbriar, free-lance stringers looking to pick up easy money, and every piece of surveillance equipment the CIA owned, borrowed or stole searching for either of them. Jason took out his notebook and wrote himself a reminder to ask Landy where the surveillance reports were going. Maybe she had an analyst who was also working for Blackbriar.

His second problem was the rest of the CIA. Landy had known Paz approximate location, and had said she'd have a team here in nine hours. Maybe that meant nine hours. Maybe it meant ninety minutes. Or maybe just nine minutes.

Jason made another compulsive check of the time. He figured that he had two and a half minutes to get away clean. Even the CIA couldn't get anyone here quicker than that. He'd take the gun until he got to the border of Luxembourg. Decision made, Jason unscrewed the Luger's silencer when Paz spoke.

"So Landy's put a leash on you, is that it?"

Jason didn't respond to the unsubtle ploy. Insulting his manhood wasn't a strategy that would work on him. He wondered what gambit would come next. A bribe? A call to patriotism? That wouldn't be amusing. He still cared about his country, but the way he felt about the government was something else again.

"All they want to do is talk to you," Paz said. He was struggling to speak through the drug. "You're one of us. The best of Treadstone. Not Landy's. She doesn't know what you are. What you need. The drugs are so much better than what Treadstone had."

_Predictable_. This was a combined attack – a call to rejoin an elitist brotherhood, and the promise of better drugs as a powerful bribe. On days when the headaches where unbearable, it would have been harder to resist. Not tonight.

Another check of the time. _I'll risk it._ Slinging his backpack onto his shoulder, Jason stepped in front of Paz one last time. It was probably a waste of breathe, but he felt a need to connect, to warn him. "You've failed Blackbriar three times. Do you think they'll give you a fourth chance? Conklin had me kill another operative after his second mistake." Jason walked out of the light, leaving Paz with one last thought. "Your long-term chances of survival are better with Landy."

The flinch was barely perceptible, but Paz recovered. "I know where Parsons is-"

Jason slammed the door shut behind him. He didn't believe that Paz or Blackbriar knew Nicky's location or they would have been holding her hostage to use against him. And now he had another problem. With Paz's alliance with Blackbriar exposed, the website that Landy had set up as an online dead drop was useless. He was good, but he didn't have the kind of time he needed to find Nicky by himself. He'd narrowed her location to a handful of likely cities, but with so many factions after her, Nicky's time was running out. Jason needed to get to her first, or her reward for helping him would be an ugly death. The CIA had the resources he needed. He crushed the warring emotions he felt at the thought; for Nicky's sake, he was willing to shake hands with the devil.


	18. Meetings

**Winter Bourne**

**Chapter 16 "Meetings"**

_Nicky Parsons_

It was the shoes that gave him away.

A jolt of fear made Nicky's fingers tremble. She been working the outside stand all day, keeping a wary eye on the crowds that drifted up and down the wide pedestrian walkway. Despite the sun shining down on the shoppers outside City One mall, a piercing chill flashed along her nerves when she realized that she'd seen this same man walk by too many times for it to be a coincidence. He'd changed his clothes, his hair, the way he walked – but his shoes – he hadn't bothered to change his shoes. Averting her eyes to avoid betraying her recognition of a tail, Nicky smiled she handed the teenager a Belgian waffle dipped in syrup. She took his money, and then held the bill up to her fellow worker as if she needed to get change from inside the restaurant. Two steps inside and she was running. Not straight out the back. That would have been predictable and stupid. Instead, she brushed past the line of customers at the candy counter inside, past the seated customers and ran up the two long flights of stairs at the back. As Nicky reached the top step, she heard raised voices complaining and protesting. It was enough to let her know that her stalker was chasing her.

Nicky had worked out different scenarios during the long nights when she couldn't sleep. As she'd practiced, she ran full tilt along the hallway that led to the bathrooms. The maze of passages up here was sure to slow her pursuer. Nicky darted to a storeroom, locked the door behind her, and then squirmed out a window. On the tiny roof outside, she scrambled the few steps to the next building with its flat roof. With the buildings jammed side by side, it was easy for Nicky to run across it to the third building. This building had an outdoor restaurant that had been closed for at least a decade. She'd broken the lock weeks ago and re-hung it so that it looked like it was locked. Hidden in the pantry behind boxes coated with thick dust, she'd put a backpack ready for an emergency. Money. A passport in the name of Adrienne Geinhart from Austria. A change of clothing, toiletries and other essentials. That was all she had to start life somewhere else. That is, if she made it out of Belgium.

With her hands shaking, Nicky stripped off her uniform and changed into an outfit that turned her into a teenager. She tucked a t-shirt promoting Brussels' national soccer team, the _Red Devils_, into worn jeans. She slung on a short black leather jacket with a dozen useless but trendy straps over the t-shirt, stomped into combat boots and tied a kerchief decorated with violent green and yellow flowers over her hair. She stuffed her uniform into the knapsack and sped down the stairs to the ground floor. The building had been chopped into a mini-mall of different shops. Trying not to pant, Nicky walked into a shop selling trendy woman's clothing.

She bought a cheap blouse just to get the pink bag as a prop. _After all, nobody on the run takes time for shopping, right? _Pausing at the street entrance, Nicky told herself that she was just another kid shopping, having a great time on a Saturday afternoon. With her heart pounding and her mouth dry, Nicky took out a cell phone and stepped out the door, chatting to an imaginary friend in French as she strolled toward _Plaz Rogier_ and its maze of subterranean walkways and the subway terminal. It took all of her self-control not to dart panicked looks around the street, wondering if they'd found her again.

She'd left most of her belongings at her apartment, but she wasn't going back. Another rule from her CIA training at the Farm, '_If you've been made, never go back. If you go back, you're dead'._ Pushing through the crowds, Nicky crossed the street. She paused before a mini-pyramid of blue glass panels to check behind her. No one appeared to be chasing her yet. Her heart was pounding and her breath was too short. Taking deliberate breaths, she eyed her choices and walked toward the Sheraton Hotel complex. Less direct, less obvious, this route also gave her more choices. A huge underground walkway extended between the hotel and _Plaz Rogier_ and then ran all the way back to City One plaza two blocks behind her. Gangs of chattering teenagers roamed the underground mall, and she tried to move as if she belonged among them. Inside the building, she caught an escalator down and trotted along the long walkways until she made it to down to the subway. Sweat trickled down her back as she waited for the next train. It was torturous to stand there, acting as if nothing was wrong, when all she wanted to do was crawl somewhere dark and hide. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man walk deliberately toward her. Acting casual, Nicky moved away. He followed, walking faster.

Her gut said to run and she did, weaving between people, trying to lose him.

A hand reached out from the crowd to grab her arm, hauling her off balance. Nicky fell to her knees, grunting in pain. Before she could look up, a gun fired behind her. _Must_ _be the guy chasing me_. The hard hand released her and he fired a gun right above her head.

_Jesus!_ The sound was so loud Nicky jumped even as her ears rang from the sound. People around her screamed. Panic washed over the crowd and everyone ran away from the gunmen, pushing and scrambling to get away. As the firefight got more intense, Nicky crawled as fast as she could move, keeping her head down. Without a weapon, she was just a liability. The best thing she could do was hide.

_At least three shooters_. _No, make it four_. Then Nicky couldn't think anymore because a panicked man ran into her, driving his leg into her side. A woman stepped on her hand, a boy's kick glanced off her head. Nicky lurched up, snagging a flap of a man's raincoat. She pulled hard and got to her knees. As the man swung around to knock her away, Nicky reached for the flailing arm and used it to haul herself up. The man stumbled off balance and she darted between two women, turned a corner and ran for an exit. Her side hurt like hell. _The guy would kicked her must have had pointed shoes_.

"Nicky!"

Not gullible enough to fall for that trick, she kept right on running, brushing past an elderly couple. The firefight subsided behind her. For some reason though, she couldn't run very fast. Her side hurt as if she'd been stuck with a knife.

Someone grabbed her hand from behind and dragged her to a stop. Terror laced with resignation made her sink against the cold concrete wall, her face turned away from the stranger whose was going to kill her. Odd that she die in some grubby subway station, four thousand miles away from home.

"Nicky, it's Tom Cronin. Don't you remember me? We met in Berlin."

"Tom?" She flicked a look at him, then straightened as she recognized his face. Hope flared. Maybe she wasn't going to die today after all. "Did Landy send you?"

Something dark shifted in his eyes and his face tightened. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Captured was much better than being dead, even if it did mean a lifetime in Federal prison for treason. Struggling was pointless. He had a gun. She was unarmed, hurt and exhausted. She let him drag her along with him. "Who's shooting at us?"

"Bourne." He tightened his grip. "Come on. Let's get out of here before the cops come."

_He's lying_. A sick spike of fear thrust through Nicky's gut. She kept her mouth shut instead of pressing for details. It'd only be more lies. Eyes darting around, Nicky tried to think of way to escape and failed.

"Damn."

She could hear the fear in Tom's voice. His hand on her arm tightened so much it felt as if were clamping his fingers directly on the bone. She clawed at it with her free hand. "You're hurting-"

A shot as loud as an explosion interrupted her. Tom's whole body lurched backwards, pulling Nicky along with him as he fell. She tumbled down to the filthy concrete platform, half on top on him. The fall had jarred her injured side so much that Nicky could barely breathe from the pain of it. Tiny white sparks flickered at the edges of her vision as her body threatened to faint. Blinking to restore her vision, Nicky pried the loose hand away from her arm and sat up.

A bullet had punctured a hole through Tom's head, exposing a mass of pulpy red and gray. Her gorge rose and she turned her face away. Nicky looked up at the sound of running footsteps coming closer. Something purposeful warned her that this wasn't another panicking commuter. A stranger, gun in hand, was racing toward her. A too familiar expression; cold, determined, told her he was Blackbriar and she knew she was dead. When he stopped to take aim, Nicky stared up at him, knowing pleading would be useless, hoping it would be quick.

_Thuft_, _thuft_, _thuft_.

Nicky recognized the sounds of a silenced gun firing. The Blackbriar killer collapsed with his own head a bloody ruin.

Standing behind him, lowering his own gun was the man Nicky thought she'd never see again. Jason Bourne. A Jason who was staring at her with the same determined expression as the man he'd just killed. Nicky's stomach turned over. As glad as she was not to be dead, as happy as she was to see Jason alive, she knew that the man hurrying toward her was not her lost lover, not _her_ Jason. At the same time, she didn't care.

He was alive.

He'd come back for her.

Jason stripped the gun down to its separate parts in seconds, then tossed them down into below the platform where subway tracks ran. He stripped off plastic gloves and tossed them as well. As he did, he kept his head moving, checking out the rest of the platform. At the first shot, the few people nearby had started running away from the sound. Now they were alone. Nicky staggered to her feet. Already was ashamed that she'd been caught so easily, she couldn't bear for him to think she was overwhelmed and weak.

It was a mistake.

He caught her before her knees completely buckled. Nicky stared up at him, wondering if she were imaging the feel of his hard arm supporting her, his scent, now overlaid by sweat and gunpowder, the warmth of his breath on her cheek as he set her down and ran his hands over her. When his fingers came back bloody, she heard his sudden indrawn breath.

Jason shoved up her blouse. A knife sliced away the top of her pants. It hadn't been the kick. A ricocheted bullet had hit her. The wound, a fingertip wide, was right above her left hip. Through the ebbing adrenaline, waves of fierce pain were now radiating from her side, cruising toward agony.

"We need to get out of here." Jason's voice was all business. His hand dipped into a pocket and removed a black case slighter larger than his hand. "You've got to keep yourself from going into shock. Take deep breaths. Calm down. I'm going to give you something for the pain."

Nicky bit her lip to keep the cry in as the needle jabbed her. Jason cut material from her blouse, then wadded it together and pushed the rough bandage against her hip. "Keep your arm pressed against it. Now get up."

He slid an arm around her back and helped her stand. Then he knelt down to rifle through Tom's clothes, then did the same for the dead assassin, stuffing things into his pockets as he returned to her. Stealing from the dead roused old superstitions, making her uneasy, but she ignored the feeling, knowing that Jason was being practical.

He checked his watch. The familiar gesture gave Nicky a pang. Her Jason had done that, with that same calculating expression on his face as he worked out his next moves.

"He was the last one after you," Jason said. He shoved the last papers and a wallet into his coat pocket, then took her arm. "They'll have called for backup though. We don't have much time."

The words beat against her like blows. _He was the last one after you._ How many more men had Jason killed to protect her? Guilt like a distant storm was waiting to sweep over her. The pain in her side was dwindling now, making her feel as if she was watching everything from a distance. "What did you give me?"

"Liquid Oxycontin."

_Oxycontin_? Otherwise known as legal heroin. No wonder the pain was fading. Course when she crashed, she'd have a steep price to pay, but it was so much better than being dead. She had a thousand questions to ask Jason, but distracting him to satisfy her emotional needs would be idiotic. She settled for a practical question. "Where are we going?"

Jason had taken them back to the escalator that went straight up to the main platform, where there was police sub-station. That couldn't be right. They'd be trapped. Despite her fears, Nicky didn't argue. Jason never did anything without a plan.

"Put these on," Jason said.

Two rings were in his hand. A plain gold band. Another ring heavy with diamonds. Blinking, Nicky slipped them on, refusing to let her tears loose. Of course they fit. Grief throbbed through her that the rings were a lie.

"We're honeymooners from France," Jason said. "You're name is Ami Lournez. _Ami Lournez_. I'm Pierre."

"Ami Lournez," Nicky repeated. "My husband Pierre."

They were almost to the top of the escalator. Nicky could hear the commotion of the aftermath of the firefight. People yelling, people crying, official voices blaring through loudspeakers trying to get control of the situation. They were walking into chaos.

"Nicky."

She looked up at him. Jason had a new scar at the edge of his hairline above his right eye. Her hand twitched as her instinct to touch it, to reassure herself that he was all right was overruled by her common sense. "Yes?"

"I need you to start screaming."


	19. GetAway

Winter Bourne

Chapter 17 Get-Away

_Nicky Parsons_

"I need you to start screaming."

An odd request for a man on the run. Nicky didn't question it. While she'd never yearned to declaim Shakespeare, been a drama student or so much as played a lamb in the Nativity play, lying for a living had made her into an excellent actress.

She didn't just scream. Nicky let out all her anger, frustration and fear into a blood curling demand for help. Her voice rose to a high note, cracked and ran back down the scale to end in moaning cries that echoed off the artistically folded aluminum ceiling. Nicky hoped it was what David wanted. They were now the center of attention of crowd already suffering from shock and fear. Nicky gave a start when two uniformed men pushed through the crowd toward them. _Local cops_. Nicky couldn't help the moan that escaped her.

"It's okay." David nudged her forward. She took a tottering step, limping on her bad side. Despite the comforting blanket of medication that he'd given her, it still hurt. David put an arm under her shoulder, shifting her so that he was taking some of her weight.

"_Veuillez aider mon épouse_," David yelled. "_Elle est étée projectile_."

Nicky translated automatically. ' Please help my wife. She's been shot.' She spared a glance up at his face to find it smeared with dirt and blood. It wasn't a great disguise, but it obscured his features enough to pass a first look.

She hoped it would be enough.

Rescue workers brushed past the cops. David relinquished her into their hands. Nicky writhed in pain as stranger's hands pulled apart the rough bandage to examine her wound. Her head swimming, she found herself on a stretcher, David hovering over her. A moment of sheer terror suspended time when one of the cops hurried over to demand their names and statements. Her heart rate must have jumped; the EMT shook his head and demanded that the cop wait until they got to the hospital.

The cop grabbed David's arm. "_Your identification_."

David thrust their passports toward him, turning away from the cop to bend over Nicky. "_Please, my wife needs a doctor!"_

The cop hesitated, then waved the EMT to take Nicky. When David moved to follow her, the cop grabbed his arm again. "_Not you, sir. You can go to the hospital later. I need your statement."_

Nicky felt paralyzed, waiting for the cop to die.

Instead, David ran a hand through his hair, his face going slack. His hand came away bloody. His voice slurred as he said, "_My head. Something's wrong_."

As Nicky watched in horror, David's eyes rolled up and he collapsed, clawing at the cop's arm as he fell.

_Pamela Landy_

Pamela Landy held some truths to be self-evident. That all men are not created equal and that some men, despite their original, decent intentions, fall prey to all the faults that man is heir to. Like jealousy. Like anger. Like greed. Apologizing mentally tothe authors of theDeclaration of Independence,Pamela closed her eyes and rubbed slow circles over her temples, hoping that it would soothe away her headache. This had to be the worst week of her professional life.

"Pam, how the hell did you let this happen?" Sloane threw the plastic binder reporting on the latest disaster down on his desk. "Why the fk didn't you-"

Pamela met Sloane's gaze as his tantrum ran up and down the scale in volume. He had a fairly extensive vocabulary of swear words, crude enough and personal enough to make most people explode in return. Pamela was too numb to care what he called her. It couldn't be anywhere near what she'd called herself. At least he was doing it without an audience.

When Sloane ran out of steam he slumped into his chair. He looked a decade older than the last time Pamela had seen him.

"I liked him," Sloane added, his tone querulous.

Pamela nodded. "I trusted him."

Silence. Pamela let it grow, resting in it.

"Run it by me again," Sloane said. "This time, tell me all the things you left out of the official report."

"Yes, sir." Pamela folded her hands in her lap. "Three days ago I received a call from Jason Bourne –"

Sloane's groan was audible. He recovered. "_He's_ the unnamed source you quoted in the report?"

"Yes, sir." At his gesture, she continued, "I established a second website to act as a dead-drop with Bourne alone. To kept it a secret, I used staff from Dan Abrams office-"

"Who gave you authorization to go to another department?"

Pamela raised an eyebrow to telegraph her annoyance. If he was going to interrupt her every other minute, this was going to be a very long debrief. She was also very aware that she was committing herself to a full disclosure without any insurance that her unorthodox actions wouldn't be held against her. She chose her words with care. "Perhaps there was some confusion by about my authority to re-direct staff."

"You mean you lied to Abrams and stole his staff." Sloane grimaced, then waved his hand to let her know to continue.

"Bourne requested queries be run against the data we'd accumulated for Treadstone and Blackbriar. Specifically looking at personnel information. He also wanted to know what activities we'd undertaken since Blackbriar was exposed." Pamela unconsciously clenched her hands. "He spotted a hole."

"Your blind-spot."

"Yes," Pamela said. "Tom Cronin."

"He betrayed us."

Pamela nodded, unable to speak for a moment. She couldn't help wondering when Tom had started to hate her. Pamela took a sip of stone-cold coffee, cleared her throat. "He went over to Blackbriar."

"Any clue why?"

"I imagine that they offered him what he wanted. Money. Power." Pamela gave him a tight smile. "Me dead."

_Jason Bourne_

Jason didn't have complete control of his autonomic nervous system, but he came close. Another benefit of being a Treadstone graduate. A careful nick along the scalp with a concealed blade to produce a gush of blood, slurred speaking voice, and a collapse staged to avoid any damage distracted the cop. By the time a med tech reached him to check his vitals, he'd slowed his heart rate. The eye drop medication he'd swiped from an abandoned vendor had dilated his left pupil. He was prepared to fake convulsions and vomit if he had to make it more convincing. It wasn't necessary. Jason was hurried onto a gurney. Up on the street, it was Nicky's crying out for her husband that made sure that they were put into the same ambulance.

It wasn't until the ambulance was forced to slow in traffic that he made his move. With the EMT focused on Nicky, Jason was able to free himself from the straps without attracting attention. He didn't want to hurt the EMTs and an ambulance was no place for a fight. With precise moves, Jason took a needle from the open medkit, ran his hand along the vials and plucked out an effective knock-out drug. That movement caught the EMT's eye, but it was too late. Jason's hand was over his mouth and the needle was in his shoulder. Another needle took care of the driver.

The first thing Jason did was turn off the siren. The second thing he did was find an unattended garage. It took him twenty minutes, but he stripped the ambulance and transferred a groggy Nicky into a black Opel Astra. As the most popular car sold in Europe, it'd be harder for the cops to locate it.

He headed south toward Luxembourg. Yet after forty minutes on the road, the nagging knowledge that he had to get rid of the car made him get off the highway. It wouldn't take long for the authorities to learn that a car had been stolen from the same place where he'd dumped the ambulance and figure out that there was a connection between the two events.

The second car he stole, a silver Vauxhall Corsa, was larger, with more room for Nicky to lay down in the back seat. Jason made her walk, hating himself for it, but knowing what carrying her would do more damage. A folded blanket made a pillow. Another blanket for warmth. After refilling the IV drip and adding a painkiller, he hung it from the hook above the rear door, then slung his jacket from the same hook to disguise it. During the entire transfer, Jason avoided meeting Nicky's eyes, some part of him afraid of what he'd see there. He took the time to switch license plates with another car, then they were back on the highway.

That Nicky hadn't spoken a word since they'd escaped made alarm bells ring in the back of Jason's mind. It wasn't normal. Though the drugs she'd been given would have had made her muzzy, she was conscious of her surroundings, and certainly able to talk. For now it was enough that she did what he wanted without hesitation. He was grateful for that. Marie would have insisted on understanding the reason behind it first. She'd been stubborn that way. He realized that he was smiling when he envisioned Marie's reaction if he'd asked her to scream. It was the first time since he'd lost her that he'd been able to do that. Smile. Though the pain of her loss hurried after it, it seemed less intense, less raw. He was healing. Then he felt a rush of guilt, as if he were betraying Marie in degrees by not being able to sustain his original, terrible grief.

Blinking away the wetness that filled his eyes, Jason refocused. He needed to concentrate on taking care of Nicky. When he'd realized that she was seriously hurt he'd had to abandon his original plan. Now what he needed was a place to treat her. The angle where the ricocheted fragment of bullet had entered her body made it all too likely that her intestines had been torn. A lethal injury, if untreated. The EMT had patched her well enough to slow the blood loss, but every moment that went by meant that more waste matter was leaking into her body, contaminating her. Sepsis could set in.

It was dark by the time Jason stopped in Bitburg, a smallish city inside Germany. Between Bitburger Brauerei, one of the largest beer makers in the world and Spangdahlem Airbase, the population was big enough to have what Jason needed, a veterinary hospital.

Jason had counted on a delay before the CIA knew enough about what had happened in Brussels to make them a threat. That delay had gotten them out of Brussels safely. By now the CIA should know that Nicky had been shot, and could guess with a high degree of accuracy how far they could get. Bitburg simply wasn't far enough away to escape the net the CIA and Interpol could stand up once they came after Nicky. Taking her to a hospital was too risky, even here. Hospitals reported gunshot wounds.

It was dark by the time Jason disabled the security system and brought Nicky into the vet's small operating room. Her skin, already pale, looked waxy. Blood was seeping from the bandages, dripping along her side. Pushing his emotions away, Jason did an inventory of the ambulance's supplies and the vet's, then prepped himself and Nicky for surgery. He was too leery to use anesthesia. Without being able to monitor her chemistry, it'd be too easy to kill her. Instead, he loaded a dozen syringes with a local anesthetic and pushed the first dose into the nerve cluster closest to the wound, then picked up a scalpel.

"Close your eyes, Nicky."

She was staring up at the ceiling. Dark eyes studied him for a moment. Her hands clenched on the rolled towel he'd given her. She gave him a faint smile, then closed her eyes.

Two hours and thirty-six minutes later, Jason had removed a pea-sized piece of metal, sewn back together the lacerated bowel, cleaned out the wound and stitched up her skin. He left a few stitches loose in case infection set in. He pressed a neat square of white padding over the stitches, then taped it down.

"It's over," Jason said. "I'm going to clean up. Make it look like we were never here. Just keep lying there till I'm done."

"Will I be okay?"

Jason blinked. He'd forgotten to reassure her. It was basic psychology to lessen a patient's stress after an operation. At least he didn't have to lie to her. "Yes. You should recover without any complications."

Turning away, Jason was already deep in compiling a detailed list of every step he needed to take when he heard her ask, "But will I be able to play the violin?"

Startled, he turned back to her. He hadn't checked for a concussion.

"It was a joke," Nicky said. The corners of her mouth curved wider as she read something in his face that appeared to amuse her. "Interesting. Guess you still don't have a sense of humor."

He swallowed, surprised at a flash of defensiveness. "I tell jokes."

"Badly." She shook her head. "Very badly."

Jason picked up the tray with the bloody instruments he'd used. "I have to-"

"-clean. Right. I'll stop teasing you." Her smiled faded. "Just one more thing. Thanks for coming back for me."

"I owed you."

She winced. Odd that his words seemed to hurt her. Not knowing what else to say, Jason started cleaning. He took the time to swallow a fast meal of energy bars and raisins with water to wash it down. It was precisely an hour and eight minutes later when he'd loaded the car with the last full trash bag.

When he went in the door one last time to get Nicky, some instinct made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Someone was out there in the dark.

Someone like him.

_Paz_.


	20. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Winter Bourne

Chapter 18 No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

_Jason Bourne_

He never knew how the habit had started, whether it is some native ability or a legacy of Treadstone, but Jason had what he thought of as a deck of virtual playing cards inscribed in his mind. Unlike ordinary ones, each of these cards was a memory, a fact or some other snippet of information pertinent to his current situation. In those moments when he wasn't straining every brain cell and muscle on ensuring his immediate survival, he'd compulsively sort and re-sort the deck, looking for patterns that would answer his most pressing questions.

In these past few days, Jason thought that answers from a Ouija board would have made more sense. None of the facts fit a pattern that he recognized. The amateurish mess in Brussels that he and Nicky had fled was one example. Tonight was another. He'd expected the CIA to show up on the doorstep of this current refuge, this vet's office in Germany. Instead, Blackbriar had sent a team after them. It didn't make sense.

Ghosting back inside the building, Jason was certain that the Blackbriar team hadn't seen him. Not yet. He'd been careful, as he was always careful. It was near midnight now, and he'd disabled the pet hospital's exterior lights. Each trip that he'd made to their stolen car to stow their gear and trash had been done in the dark. Gloves and a dark scarf had kept his skin from giving him away. Now Jason raced to the office where he'd left Nicky sleeping. He pressed a hand across her mouth at the same time giving her shoulder a squeeze. She startled awake, her eyes wide with fear. He bent down to whisper, "Stay here. Stay quiet."

When she nodded her understanding, he headed toward the animal pens where he'd already worked out an escape route. Two strides in that direction and another re-sort of his mental deck of facts made him freeze. Three brief snapshots - the Treadstone operative he'd shot in that field outside Paris, telling Jason as he died, '_We work alone. We always work alone_'. An older memory of his own voice, '_Conklin had me kill one of us?_'. Then his own warning to Paz just days ago, '_You've failed Blackbriar three times'_. The memories flicked into a new pattern that changed everything, giving him a chance to succeed against superior numbers.

Changing direction, Jason ran to the closet that held the medical supplies. Inside the room was a section dedicated to animal control. The cheap lock securing the tranquilizer guns took him twenty seconds to snap off. He grabbed a handful of darts and loaded the handgun. Another set went into his jacket pocket. Then Jason ran though the long hallway to the back of the building. The second window he tested opened smoothly, its screen parting easily under his knife. He stepped over the low window sill, then sidled along the building towards the front door.

How long had it been since he'd spotted them? Three minutes? Four? By now Paz and his companions would find that the vet's office had already been broken into and realize that they'd found their targets. Except now Jason was where they didn't expect him. Behind them.

As certain as he'd been that he he'd guessed right, it was a relief to see the proof. Paz was fighting for his life, Jason could hear grunts and the sound of blows as Paz fought for his life. The noise covered his own approach as Jason crept toward the open doorway. In such close quarters, in the dark, picking one figure out from another was impossible.

With a mental shrug, Jason shot every one of them.

Wary of underestimating the opposition, Jason dropped to the ground and rolled away from the door as soon as he fired the third shot. His instinctive move saved his life. Above his head bullets whined as they streaked by and struck the wall. A fourth Treadstone agent, lingering behind the others, had had enough time to aim and fire. With adrenalin revving his system, Jason reached the relative shelter of the stolen car. Stripped off his jacket and shirt. He stuffed the shirt in one of the jacket's sleeve. Thrusting the makeshift dummy under the car, Jason posed the jacket make it look as if he'd collapsed under the car with one arm extended into the open. Jason skittered the gun along to place it near the empty wrist of the sleeve. On hands and knees Jason crawled toward the front of the car, hovering near the engine. He didn't know what equipment the shooter was carrying. If he was wearing night vision goggles, Jason was going to be in a lot of trouble.

The night had gone silent at the sound of the shots. Jason waited, wanting the final Treadstone agent to decide he had indeed hit his target and come forward to rescue the rest of his men.

The sounds of insects came back first. Small rustling sounds in the grass from mice. An owl hooted. This waiting was the worst part of any operation. The rush of adrenaline was pushing Jason's nerves into overdrive, making it a struggle to sit without moving. It was an old battle, one he'd faced and mastered many times before. Tonight, he had an edge over the opposition. Wide fields surrounded the vet's office, making it unlikely that neighbors would have heard the shots and called the police. Nicky was too hurt and too smart to leave the office until she heard from him. The drugs he'd hit Paz and the others with would keep them unconscious for hours.

The only thing that the fourth Treadstone agent knew was that his partners had been shot. Injured or dead, he was alone. Without knowing the number of attackers or how they were armed, his moves were limited. Retreat, attack or call in help. Jason's choice would have been to disappear until he had better options. He was taking a gamble that the last Treadstone agent would be reluctant to call in backup when he couldn't answer basic questions about what the status of the operation. Retreat would have been the smartest option.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

With only a thin t-shirt on, the cold tried to rob Jason of his strength as the adrenalin faded. He tensed and relaxed different muscle groups to keep himself warm and ready to move. Without conscious intent, his breathing changed. In through the nose in a steady breath to warm it. Exhaled out in the same rhythm. His shivering grew more constant, his body trying to keep him from freezing.

Another minute slid by. Then Jason heard it. Despite his efforts to approach silently, it was impossible for Jason to miss the way the ambient background noise of the night hushed. A scent of spicy aftershave was enough to give Jason a direction. The narrow driveway, surrounded by a stacked rock fence gave the Treadstone agent a limited approach. Timing it, Jason eased up toward the front of the car, keeping low against its bulk as soft footfalls approached and went past him. Jason followed around the car, still crouched down, timing his moves so that the man didn't hear him.

The gun fired again and again as the Treadstone agent spotted what appeared to be a man's body, partially under the car. At the first shot, Jason lunged forward and plunged three prepped tranquillizer darts high into the back of the man's right leg, as close as he could to the artery there that send blood coursing back to the heart to speed the impact of the drug. It wasn't as effective as a gunshot as a release mechanism. The man had time to react, swinging around to his right, trying to shoot his attacker.

That was another mistake. The time it took to swing the gun around gave Jason an opening to continue his attack. Jason kicked the back of the Treadstone agent's right knee. As he sagged, Jason closed the gap. Wrapping his right arm around the neck, he slammed the final dart into the man's throat. The man reacted savagely, grabbing Jason's arm to push him away. Squirming, trading blows, Jason dragged the dart along the man's throat. He felt a flood of warmth bathe his hand while the Treadstone agent sagged, losing interest in the fight. Jason had nicked the carotid artery. It was over in seconds.

Staggering up to his feet, Jason leaned against the car, trying to breathe. The Treadstone agent had gotten in a couple of good hits with an elbow. His ribs ached. His shins were a mass of pain from kicks. He tore off his t-shirt, using it to wipe the blood off his face from scratches where the man had clawed at him, trying for his eyes. Mechanically he used the rest of the t-shirt to scrub the blood off his right hand and arm. He refused to think past what he needed to do, refusing to think about the sickening sensation of having another man's blood on his hands. Again.

Jason knelt to pull out back on his pullover and jacket. The dead man carried nothing. Not even a driver's license. Jason shoved the body off the driveway. He ran back to the office. Closing the door behind him, he switched on the lights. They'd been here far too long. If Blackbriar had been able to find them, the CIA couldn't be too far behind.

Bending down, Jason checked the three remaining Treadstone agents lying tumbled together in the hallway. Paz, attacked from two sides, must have known something was wrong. Although one arm was broken and his face swollen and purple, he'd survived. More, he'd stabbed one of his attackers in the chest with multiple wounds, leaving him dead.

Jason picked up a Luger that one of the agents had lost in their struggle. Jason stood above Paz, slid off the safety and cocked the hammer. Any debt he owed to Paz had been more than paid. For the second time, Paz's life had been in his hands when he'd captured him back in Munich. Jason had walked away, leaving Paz alive behind him. Tonight was his reward for his mercy. Paz had come after Nicky again.

His index finger was squeezing the trigger when the air changed and he felt another presence. Nicky.

"Don't watch this," Jason said.

"Don't do it," Nicky asked. "Not for me. Please."

"It's the only way I know how to stop it."

"They turned on each other, didn't they?"

Jason flashed her a look, unable to conceal his surprise.

"One of them yelled at the others in Spanish. I heard them say Blackbriar." She leaned against the wall, an arm pressed against the wound in her side. Her face was chalky, her eyes shadowed by bruises. "Give them to Landy. She'll know what to do with them."

"Already tried that in back in Munich."

Nicky fell silent in understandable confusion.

Despite the instincts clamoring for a clean kill, Nicky's presence had broken the cold chain of conditioning and logic to trigger his emotions. He didn't want to do this. He knew what it would feel like. He already carried so much remorse. So much guilt. It left his gut twisted. He could hear himself gasping for air as a sense of helplessness at having to be forced into this situation knotted the muscles on his neck and his headache came roaring back.

His gun hand was shaking as his bone-deep training struggled with his desires and regrets. With sure understanding, Jason knew that killing these men would mean that despite everything he'd gone through to escape his past, he was exactly what Treadstone had made him. A cold blooded murderer.

"No." Jason eased off the trigger and slid the safety on. He laid the gun with deliberate moves onto a table. Another reflexive check of his watch. He didn't have the time it would take to clean up this mess, as well as the one outside. He knelt, began to rifle through the unconscious men's pockets. "Get in the back seat on the driver's side and lie down. We need to get out of here."

"David."

He spared a glance up at her as she stepped through the passage he made for her to get by.

"You're not the man I knew in Paris."

Odd how the words struck so hard. He froze, dreading what she was going to say next.

Fingers touched his shoulder, applied a gentle pressure. "You couldn't have made the same choice then that you did tonight." She left him.

Even as he dismissed her words to refocus on his work, the approval warmed a corner of his soul that had been empty and aching since Marie had died.


	21. Bodies At Rest

Winter Bourne

Chapter 19 Bodies At Rest

_Jason Bourne_

Two days and three hundred miles away from the vet's office, Jason and Nicky were hiding in the non-descript Hotel Esser in the heart of Cologne. To confuse their trail, he'd stolen a third car, a silver Passat. Two towns after that, he'd switched license plates with another car. In the parking lot of the hotel, Jason used a beat-up child-seat and worn toys purchased from a second-hand shop to turn it into a family car that no cop would look at twice.

Nicky wasn't doing well. Despite his care, an infection had set in. Hauling her across Germany in the back seat of a car hadn't helped. Every bump and rough patch of road had strained the internal stitches holding her together. The constant emotional stress she'd been under wasn't helping either.

After cleaning out the infection, Jason reapplied antibiotic, then bandaged the wound, taping it in place. He'd stolen a considered selection of medical supplies from the ambulance and the vet's office. With that and what he'd been able to purchase legitimately, he had enough to get Nicky through another four days. The tiny refrigerator was sufficient to yield ice packs and cool towels to help lower the fever. All he could do now was hope that his surgery had been competent enough and that her immune system was strong enough to fight off the infection.

A firm knock sounded on a nearby door, and a deep voice demanded entry. Checking the pocket-sized monitor for the video camera he'd set up earlier, Jason recognized the motel repairman.

Not a threat.

Except his loud voice woke Nicky.

"Conklin!" Nicky jerked upright on the bed, her eyes bright with fever. She cast a terrified look around the room. "Oh, God. He found us." She tore at the covers, frantic to get up.

Jason caught Nicky's flailing hands and pressed her back against the mattress. In her delirium, she thought Conklin was alive. Projecting a calm he didn't feel, Jason said, "Nicky, It's okay. We're safe."

"David?" Her eyes found his. Her breathing slowed as the fear faded. She didn't resist as he rearranged the bedding around her. Nicky's hand crept over to cling to his wrist. He let it rest there, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. The spurt of fear had sent her heart rate soaring. Jason upped the sedative level, wanting her to sleep. Soft brown eyes watched him. Her eyelids drifted down. Nicky's head drooped. He eased her down to the pillow, combing the short silky hair out of her eyes with his fingers.

She'd called him David. She'd been afraid that Conklin would 'find us'. She'd trusted him when he told her she was safe. Nicky was too sick for this to be a pretense to manipulate him.

He backed away from the bed, his hands rubbing against the thighs of his pants. The way she looked at him. The trust. It made something hurt in his gut, an uneasy emotion he couldn't put a name to.

A flicker of pictures was all he had of his life in Paris. Fewer memories of Nicky. A teasing smile. The touch of her hand on his face. Nothing coherent enough to give him an emotional connection. She'd made it clear that they'd had a relationship in Paris, but he couldn't feel it. Marie's death was less raw, but he woke every morning hoping his faulty memory had tricked him and she would be there, ready to laugh at his fears. A moment later he'd remember that she was gone and a sick surge of pain would start his day. The world was so much grayer without her.

He settled into a worn chair and picked up his notebook. It was a dangerous habit, leaving little bits of himself scribbled down on paper. It revealed the way he thought, what he remembered. Yet he couldn't let it go. Too much of Marie seemed to be pressed between the pages. He tucked a stray scrap of an article cut from a Italian newspaper back where it belonged and smoothed the page.

Landy's last updates to the dead drop had added another dimension to his mental collection of facts and impressions. For the first time, the pieces were fitting into a pattern, one that made sense once he considered how the ability to generate large amounts of money had corrupted Treadstone. Blackbriar may have been intended as an upgraded version of Treadstone, but the new program appeared to have changed both too much and not enough.

It was after midnight when Jason finished writing his last speculative question and closed the notebook. Jason did a final check of the surroundings, then he snapped off the hotel's lights. He plugged in a child's nightlight, a half-moon that glowed a soft yellow. He didn't want Nicky waking up in a dark unfamiliar room and panic. Jason kicked off his shoes and climbed into the second bed.

Tomorrow would be the third day in this hotel. The antsy feeling was getting stronger as a familiar pressure urged him to leave. If Nicky wasn't better by tomorrow night, he'd have a hard decision to make. Abandon her at a hospital and hope her papers were good enough to protect her or tell Landy to come get her. Both options put Nicky in danger.

He pressed hands against his eyes, feeling them burn from fatigue. He hadn't been able to sleep since Munich. It was going to be another one of those nights when he couldn't turn his brain off. Against his will, his mind refused to stop spitting out cards, playing out different scenarios and options that he'd already considered two and three times. Logic warned him that he was being foolish by taking care of a woman who couldn't defend herself, while at the same time he was beating himself up for placing Nicky in even more danger by keeping her with him. Annoyed with the internal debate, Jason settled back on the lumpy pillow, resigned to another sleepless night when he heard Nicky moaning.

"_David, please don't go_."

Jason tensed on the bed, waiting to hear what else Nicky would say in her sleep. The words were intermingled with deep moans, a sound of grief that hurt him to hear. Reluctant, Jason went over. Taking her hand, knowing the contact would reach her even if his words couldn't, he said, "It's all right. I'm right here."

Her eyes didn't open, but the brittle tension in her muscles faded.

The second time it happened, Jason reassured her again, then sat down on the bed, planning to sit there until her sleep cycle deepened. When he woke up hours later, Jason was lying down on his side, his body pressed against Nicky's, his head on her shoulder and a hand curled around her arm.

_This isn't right._ He slid off the bed, staring down at her with his heart pounding. _What the hell is happening to me?_

_Nicky Parsons_

"Where are we?" The words came out weaker than she wanted.

"Cologne, Germany."

Nicky took another drink of coffee, having to lift the cup with both hands to hide the tremors. The fever had broken. She felt better. At least her head wasn't spinning. She was even able to string two coherent thoughts together. Except she felt drained, feeble. It was all she could do to get herself into the bathroom and crawl back into bed.

"How do you feel?" David asked.

David was across the room, sorting through some paperwork. Wasn't looking at her. Hadn't looked at her since she'd woken up. _Maybe I'm being too sensitive_. Nicky shifted against the pillow, trying to find a more comfortable position. She ached so much. Her head felt like it was an invisible vise. _I won't let him think I'm weak_. Sitting up, she licked dry lips and said, "I'm okay. Do we need to leave right away?"

He gave her one of those assessing looks. "Tomorrow. Early."

Well, that was one thing that hadn't changed about him. David had never been a talker. Had barely spoken on that trip from Madrid to Tangiers. Or on the night she'd left him there. At least he'd given her a reprieve. She had another night to rest.

A baby's cry made Nicky start. "That sounds as if it's in here."

Jason picked up a bundle from the couch. He flipped it over, twisted something and the crying stopped.

"What is that?" Nicky thought she sounded remarkably calm.

"Robot baby."

Nicky inhaled coffee as a laugh surprised her. As she sputtered, gasping, Jason grabbed her coffee cup. He hovered over her, waiting to see if she could regain her breath. She coughed twice more, then was able to say, "I'm okay."

He returned to the other side of the room. As if he needed to have some distance between them. She kept the thought to herself. "So the cover is a couple traveling with a baby?"

"A sick mom with a sick baby," Jason amplified. "To keep the maids out."

"Good idea."

A flick of those blue eyes in her direction, as if her were surprised at the compliment, as mild as it had been. He brought over a passport and a sheet of notes and put them on the side table near her. "Your new identity."

Before she could speak, he added, "I'll be back in three hours." He handed her a phone. "I've programmed in my phone's number." Then he handed her a palm-sized monitor. "You can toggle between views of the hallway and parking lot."

He hesitated before he had the door all the way open. "Do you need anything?"

"No, thanks," Nicky said. Her internal voice added. _Yes. I need you to look at me the way you used to. I need you to remember me. Love me._

The door shut, leaving her alone with her pain.

Two hours later, Nicky was sorting through Jason's stash. She recognized most of the drugs from Treadstone's pharmaceutical menu, all selected to improve brain or body function. Ritalin. Amphetamine Adderall. Dangerous drugs that caused health problems and addiction, but no one at Treadstone had seemed to care about the long term side effects. Maybe because most Treadstone operatives hadn't lived very long.

Rummaging through more pockets, she found caffeine pills as well as a wide selection of opiates and other painkillers.She was squinting to read the fine print on one of the bottles when David spoke behind her.

"You want something in particular?"

Nicky couldn't help the way she reacted. Her whole body jerked as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. She hadn't even heard him come in. She made herself relax. "Something stronger than aspirin for my headache."

"How bad?"

Her hands clenched. "Bad."

His hesitation was palpable. Nicky asked, "What is it?"

"Too many drugs over too few days. Not good."

Nicky considered telling him that she'd been thinking of pounding her head into the concrete block wall to stop the pain if she hadn't found anything in his bag. Then she felt guilty, remembering the atrocious headaches the Treadstone operatives had reported. "Please."

She dropped her eyes as his unsettling gaze fastened on her face. He was giving off weird vibes. Not dangerous. Not crazy. Just odd. She was hurting too much to try to figure out why.

He plucked a blue vial out of the bag. He tapped a pill out. "Here. Percodan."

"Thanks."

The pain melted under the medication.

He'd brought them food. Hot ham and cheese sandwiches that were as common in Europe as hamburgers were in the United States. She ate half of it without tasting it, then put it down. Even now, he was sitting across the room. Nicky had a suspicion that he was pretending to read the Herald as an excuse not to talk to her. "David."

A flick of his eyes in her direction.

"Please tell me what's going on. I don't even know what happened back in Brussels."

Another of those assessing looks. Nicky met his gaze without flinching.

He folded the newspaper. "All right. I'll tell you what I know. The rest of it is just guess work."

Back on the bed, Nicky tucked a pillow under her knees and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She had a feeling this was going to be a long explanation.


	22. Changing Direction

Chapter 20 Changing Direction

_Nicky Parsons_

The hotel bed was as soft as a park bench. At least it felt that way. Nicky stuffed another pillow behind her back, trying to find a way to sit that didn't hurt or strain her stitches. She pushed the remainder of her lunch away, unable to finish it. The movement caught David's attention. His gaze riveted on her leftovers and his face went rigid. He was across the room in a heartbeat, snatching up the ham and cheese sandwich and tossing it into the trash with force.

"I'm sorry. Wasn't thinking." David was so upset his voice sounded different. Rougher.

Nicky unclenched her fingers from the blanket. She wasn't afraid. She refused to be afraid. "What's wrong?"

David moved into the kitchenette where Nicky couldn't see him. She heard glasses rattling, water running, packages being opened. He came back in with a glass filled with some murky substance. It stank.

"Drink this."

The sternness in David's expression had her reaching for the glass before she could ask what was in it. Holding her breath, Nicky gagged half of the drink down.

"All of it."

She choked down the rest of it.

"Now drink this."

_This_ was a glass of warm water. Nicky sipped, swishing it around to get the nasty taste out of her mouth. When she was finished, she was feeling uncomfortably full.

"You need to be on a liquid diet until we're sure you're healed." He tapped the first glass. "This had enzymes and essential oils to help digest that damn sandwich."

"Oh."

David whipped on his jacket and unlocked the door. Nicky's protest died when she saw his face. He turned his back on her. Checked his watch. "Be ready to leave. I'll be back by two."

The door closed under such forced control that it set her nerves on edge. As if David had to take care not to rip it off the frame. Nicky pressed trembling fingers to her mouth to keep herself from cursing or yelling. _What the hell just happened? _All she knew was that something had torn open David's emotional scars and he was bleeding. Nicky closed her eyes, remembering Tangiers, remembering the way he'd twisted his beat-up hands as he choked out a story of chasing memories with Marie's help. Had he found what he'd been looking for back in New York? Whatever had happened there didn't seem to have helped him.

"David, I'm so sorry," Nicky said it to the empty room. _I'm sorry I've been such a coward._ Her words became a prayer. "Please, let me in. Let me help you."

_Pamela Landy_

"Marty, I'm glad you're here," Pamela stood up. Odd that it had been Marty that had started her on this path. If he hadn't granted her access to Treadstone's files back in Berlin two years ago, she'd never have heard the name Jason Bourne. She wondered if he'd be sorry about that when the meeting was over.

"Thanks, Pam."

Marty had gained weight. His eyes were red, his face puffy around the jawline. Pamela knew the look. He'd been stuck deep inside some black operation and hadn't moved from his desk for days at a time. Maybe weeks. "How are you?"

He gave her a sardonic look. "Busy."

"How's Director Sloane?"

Marty sat down, put his hands on his knees and sank into a chair at the conference table. "Pneumonia. He'll be fine. I've been rotated back in until the docs clear him."

"I see."

"Did you expect that they'd put you in charge?" Marty asked.

"Expect? No. Did I have an irrational hope? Yes." Pamela pulled her files closer, resisting the urge to check them once more. She took a deep breath and said nothing.

After a long minute it was Marty's turn to laugh. "I'm impressed at your self control. I was sure you'd have a lot of questions."

_How condescending of you_. Pamela shrugged. _You'd be even more impressed if you knew how much I despise you even while I sitting here smiling at you_.

"Anyway." Marty's smile disappeared. "Mr. Carson might only be an interim head of the CIA, but he's made it clear that he intends to have the Bourne problem ended during his tenure. That's what we're here to discuss. When he gets here, keep it short. You got my briefing?"

"Yes." The briefing was an interesting collection of facts mixed in with a lot of fantasy. It also had a lot of missing information. Pamela had no intention of using it, but she wasn't going to let Marty know that. _He'll find out soon enough the real reason he's here. He's not going to like it._

"Stick to the script, and I'll get you through this."

"How generous of you," Pamela let the snipe escape, then pressed her lips together.

"That mess in Brussels." Marty shook his head. "You're going to have to take the hit on that one. It's your fault that Bourne killed more of our own people."

"You know that's not true."

Marty's brows twitched together. Before he could speak, the door swung open. Pamela and Marty both stood up as Ray Carson, walked in. He was a short man, and had that certain air that some short men take on, a swagger that let people know he was tough, despite his lack of inches. His three assistants took seats around him.

Pamela retook her seat, not wanting to tower over him.

"Sir, Let me introduce Ms. Pamela-," Marty started.

"No need." Carson cut him off. "Let's just get started. Pam?"

"Yes, sir," Pamela was careful to avoid meeting Marty's sudden sharp look at her. "I'm going to start with background information, then bring us up to date. Two years ago Treadstone operative David Webb was ordered to assassinate former Dictator Nykwana Wombosi …"

_Nicky Parsons_

The car leaked. Nicky leaned toward the window to avoid the steady drip. Another gust of heavy wet wind tried push the vehicle around. She wondered if David even noticed as the car remained steady on the busy road. Looking out the window, Nicky struggled to see past the heavy mist to the buildings surroundings them. Some city center she didn't know.

"Where are we?"

"Bremen." Another gust of wind sent a spray of water through the missing seals on the car door. "We'll sleep there tonight. I'll get us another car. We'll be in Denmark in another day."

"Then where?"

"Brazil. Maybe Argentina. Haven't decided yet."

"Are you taking me with you?" Nicky regretted the words as soon as she said them. _What happens if he says no?_

He didn't answer right away. "You can decide after we talk."

"You're going to tell me happened back in Brussels?"

"Yes."

She'd been too sick for talking by the time David had come back to the hotel. The sandwich had been giving her digestive system fits. He'd forced another one of his ghastly cures on her. It'd had helped, she was definitely feeling better. Not great, but better.

Nicky looked up as the car slowed. They were driving into an underground parking lot. David answered her questioning look. "We need new clothes."

"To go with our new identities."

"Right."

Nicky eased herself out of the car. David took her arm. He led her without hesitation to an escalator and up to the second floor of what turned out to be a mall. _He must have found this place on the Internet_. He led her to the woman's section in a department store, sitting her down near a dressing room. In the middle of the afternoon of a work-day, few people were roaming around.

Exhausted by the walk, Nicky used her hands to lower herself into the chair. If she kept her back completely straight, it didn't hurt too much. She watched with interest as David circled the clothing displays, critically eying the selections. Having made his decisions, he went back and pulled out specific pieces of clothing. His arms were full when he came back to her. She sorted through the pile, keeping a khaki shirt dress, black pants, two blouses and a black sweater. "I need scarves. And boots."

He nodded and came back a second time with a selection of scarves that matched the blouses and dress. Plucking out three of the ones she liked best, Nicky considered teasing him about his fashion sense. Then she reconsidered. His selections had nothing to do with fashion. Like her own shopping in Brussels, it was about blending in to help hide. All she'd do was remind him of what he was.

Next, Nicky followed David to the shoes. She picked a pair of brown leather boots, as unlike her own black pair as she could get, remembering how the failure to change his shoes had betrayed an enemy to her in Brussels.

They stopped at another store for David to buy clothing for himself. An hour down the road, David stopped at a busy square with a number of busy restaurants. He had her change first in one of the bathrooms while he picked up food at a supermarket. When she came back, he changed into his new clothing. She felt a _frisson_ chase up her spine when she first saw him approach the car. She hadn't recognized him for a heartbeat.

Nicky had seen him do this before. In Tangiers. In Brussels. He became someone else, down to his fingertips.

"Something wrong?" David asked as he slid behind the driver's seat.

"No." She shrugged. "It's just that somehow you went left here as a German and came back Italian."

Now it was his turn to shrug. Even that was Italian now, broader, his hands curling up to add emphasis. "I've had plenty of practice, right?"

"Do you have to think about it?"

"No." He started the car. "Let's get going. Drink the tea first."

Obediently, Nicky sipped at the tepid peppermint tea. Supposed to help her weakened digestion. He'd also picked up containers of baby food. The combined mashed bananas and apples seemed to be the least disgusting. She peeled off the lid on one of the tiny jars and stuck in the spoon. "I'm feeling well enough now to listen. Please."

David nodded. "I have questions for you too."

That was a surprise. Nicky felt her heartbeat pick up. _I swore I wasn't going to be such a coward, somehow I have to let him know how I feel. On the other hand, I can't just blurt it out_. She settled for saying, "Sure. What do you want to know?"

"Have you contacted anyone since Tangiers?"

"No." Nicky shook her head. "They put a kill order out on me. How could I trust anyone? Or do you think they found me because I did something stupid?"

"I had to ask."

"Do you believe me?" The reminder of the night in Paris when David has looked straight through her as if she were nothing, worthless, still had the power to hurt her.

"Yes," David said. "Being stupid has nothing to do with this, Nicky. It's about being able to control your needs."

She knew what he meant. "Like _needing_ to talk to your family."

"Right."

"David." She was changing the topic, but if he was in the mood to talk, she needed to know this. "What happened yesterday? Why were you so upset?"

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

_Shit_. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn't close down.

It took a while, but he answered. "When I bought that sandwich, I was thinking about other things. I was on autopilot, picking up things that I knew she liked-"

His voice choked and Nicky knew what he was going to say next. She said, "You bought it for Marie."

David nodded.

"I'm sorry."

He flashed her a surprised look.

"Sorry that you're still in such pain." Nicky said. _I'll never, ever tell him how jealous I am of that woman_. Drowning out that selfishness was true remorse that he'd lost someone he cared about so much.

He cleared his throat. "Where do you want me to start?"

Nicky scraped more mangled fruit from the cup. Strange how she couldn't ask the questions she most wanted the answers to straight out. _How much do you remember about me, David?_ "With New York. Start there."


	23. Tell Me Why

Winter Bourne

Chapter 21 Tell Me Why

_Nicky Parsons_

David would never gain fame for his ability to tell a story. Nicky, concerned about what the quest to reclaim his past meant for him, for both of them, wanted to hear how David _felt_ about it. His dry recitation of facts gave her the shakes as she wondered how he'd managed to survive, but nothing, not his voice, not his face, told her what she ached to know.

"… I stole Vosen's copies of Blackbriar files from his safe-"

"Wait," Nicky interrupted. "You broke into a CIA office in New York City? How did you find it?"

"Daniels. The morgue in Tangiers had what was left of his briefcase. Most of the papers were burned, but one piece of a Blackbriar file had the address."

"A Blackbriar file had the address of a CIA cover operation printed on it?" Nicky shook her head. "That's an insanely stupid mistake. Sorry, shouldn't have interrupted."

David went on, describing his activities in New York as he worked his way toward the heart of Treadstone. It seemed easier for him to talk when he was looking at the road, not her. Nicky didn't mind, but she was getting a crick in her neck.

"… Pamela Landy was there. At the Treadstone building."

"_Landy met you_? _Alone_?" Nicky couldn't keep the amazement from her voice.

"She wanted me to come in with her."

"Of course." It would have been quite a coup for her to bag Jason Bourne, all by herself. Then Nicky shook her head. That wasn't fair to Pam. In Berlin, Pamela had been more willing to give Jason the benefit of the doubt than she had been. Another reason to feel guilty.

"I gave her Vosen's Blackbriar files..."

With the information from CNN broadcasts and doing research online, Nicky had worked out that David had sent the files to Pam, but she hadn't know how.

"…found Treadstone's offices. _Doctor_ Hirsch was there." David's voice took on a harsh tone. "It was him. The other man in the picture with Daniels."

It took her a second. Then Nicky nodded, remembering the photo David had shown her when they'd stopped at a café outside Madrid. Then she felt her stomach clench as the name sank in. "I know that name."

He gave her a piercing glance. "Tell me."

"Hirsch's name was on every scrip for Treadstone. I know Conklin had arguments with him about some of the drugs." Nicky added, "Hirsch got your monthly fitness reports."

"You ever speak to him?"

"No." Nicky shook her head. "What did he tell you?"

David didn't speak for a long time.

Nicky unclenched her hands from her skirt and stuffed then into her jacket pockets. She could feel the tension like a live thing between them. It was so hard not to blurt out more questions, try to pry it out of him. She bit her lips together, afraid that anything she said would cause him to withdraw again.

"Hirsch told me that I'd volunteered. That I chose to became Jason Bourne." David took a hand from the steering wheel to brush sweat from his face. "I kept remembering more. Hirsch telling me that I'd be saving American lives. Handing over my dog tags. What Hirsch had them do to me…"

_I'd no idea it would be this hard for him_. Nicky could hear the pain in his voice as he told her what had happened. She could feel the blood draining from her face as he told her about the water-boarding, the sleep deprivation. From the way David periodically hesitated, Nicky had a feeling that he was leaving out worse things.

"I killed him. A complete stranger," David's voice had gotten thick with self-loathing. "For no reason except that Hirsch told me to. And the bastard welcomed me into the program. Told me that I was no longer David Webb. That I was Jason Bourne."

"Hirsch made me remember." Another tone flavored David's voice, one of determination. "I won't forget again."

When it was clear that he was done, Nicky couldn't stand it any longer. "I'm so sorry. What they did to you. But, please. Tell me. Do you remember me at all?"

He gave her one of those looks.

Nicky stopped breathing.

"I remember you."

--

_Pamela Landy_

Pamela had never had a more attentive audience as she summarized everything she knew about Treadstone, Blackbriar and Jason Bourne.

"You've continued to exchange information with Jason Bourne without approval?" Marty asked. "Why the hell were you thinking?"

"That I've gotten more truth from him than from some CIA sources." Pamela gave Marty a look that told exactly what she thought of him.

"Why are Blackbriar assets after Bourne?" Carson asked.

"Webb-" At the director's slight look of confusion, Landy cleared her throat and started again. _This should get an interesting reaction._ "Bourne thinks that Nicky Parsons is the target."

--

_Nicky Parsons_

Nicky eyed the camping gear and felt her stomach plummet. Nothing about sleeping in the woods appealed to her. _Let's see. There's bugs, dirt, no bathroom, more bugs, no hot water. Wait, it's winter. Substitute bugs for freezing. Not a great trade-off_. The more she thought about it, the worse the idea seemed. Inside though, a small bubble of happiness kept her spirits from getting too depressed. _David said he remembered me_! She hadn't dared to press her luck to ask him exactly what that meant.

David finished rolling the sleeping bag and tied it to the top of his pack. He stood, sweeping the snowy woods with one of those assessing look. "Let's go."

"Do we have to camp out?" Nicky gestured behind them. "I saw a hostel back there."

"You know the rules. No patterns."

"Right." It was a lesson from her own CIA training. Establishing a pattern in any kind of behavior would make them easier to find. Since they'd left Brussels, they'd been staying in hotels. It made sense to stay somewhere different. She nodded, then timidly put a hand on his arm. "Do we have to camp out?"

David looked at her, frowning. Just as he opened his mouth, his expression underwent a transformation, from annoyed to amused. He didn't laugh, but he looked like he _could_ laugh. It was such a change that Nicky felt her own heart lightening. She smiled up at him; glad he could stand being teased.

He shook his head, his amusement fading. "Sorry, Nicky. We'll spend one night outside at least."

Nicky wasn't a weather expert, but it felt like winter in Denmark was much colder than it had been in Germany. She didn't protest, falling behind David as he led them through the edge of the park into the deeper woods.

David wouldn't let her carry anything. Not even a small backpack. He was right, of course. By the time they reached their new hiding place, she was trembling with exhaustion.

He'd found them a sheltered space between two outcroppings of rock as twilight was falling. The first thing he did was insist she get into the sleeping bag. He pulled out a tall can, twisted the bottom and shook it. "Here."

The can was warm, welcome to her frozen fingers. "Hurray for technology. Instant hot cocoa."

"We can't afford a fire." He sat beside her with a thick thermal blanket as his own bed. He pulled out another can of the chemically heated cocoa. He handed her one of the baby food cans.

With appetite, Nicky ate the tasteless mush, knowing she needed the calories. David was took out an apple. He seemed more at ease with her now. Nicky took a chance. "What exactly do you remember? About us."

"That we had a relationship. I have these images of us, being together. Not a lot."

His words dimmed Nicky's happiness. This sparse memories wasn't what she'd hoped for. "Do you remember any conversations. The things we talked about?"

"No." His voice had softened as if he knew that answer would cause her pain. "How did we-"

She waited, patient as he struggled for words, knowing it was better if he said it. She was tired of letting things go unsaid. He had still to tell her about what had happened in Brussels, but this was so much more important.

"-get together?"

"It was pretty silly," Nicky said. She exaggerated the story a bit, wanting him to laugh. "The planning was the toughest part. Making sure none of you met…" She told him the way her heel had broken, how she'd fallen into the chair, then onto the floor. "You helped me up." Nicky shrugged, unable to describe the instant chemistry expect to say, "We just clicked."

It was light enough to see his face. David's expression went from interested to somber in an instant. She knew that look. Her attempt at light-heartedness drained away. "What is it?"

"Treadstone. Why didn't Conklin allow any of us to meet?"

Nicky blinked. This wasn't the way she'd though this conversation would go at all. "I thought Conklin didn't want any of you to be able to give away the identity of the others if you got caught."

"Maybe. Or maybe he didn't want a mutiny."


	24. We Need to Talk

_Sorry that this is so short. I promise that I am going to finish this story, and an explanation of Brussels – and everything else - is forthcoming as it comes to an end. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this for so long and thanks so much for the comments, including errors and typos, I appreciate you taking the time! -- Teal Moon_

Chapter 22 We Need to Talk

_Nicky Parsons_

The hostel was dingy, its furnishings old and worn by a thousand careless hands. Nicky didn't care. It had a roof, real beds and even better, a working bathroom with hot water.

Ignoring the flimsy lock, David had secured the door with his own makeshift security system. A heavy piece of pipe wedged under the knob, a tiny camera that reported on the hallway and a hidden pressure alarm that would flash a light if someone lingered too long outside the door.

Trying to help, Nicky pulled groceries out the shopping bag while David tinkered with the camera's remote. More baby food for her. A salad of mixed greens. Two apples, an orange, a box of whole oats. _Looks like David's eating habits haven't changed. Healthy and dull._

"I'm going to take a shower."

Nicky looked up at the abrupt comment with a smile, but David had already turned away. He wasn't comfortable around her. It showed in everything he did. The way he avoided looking at her. The physical space he put between them. The way he spoke to her, as if weighing every word first. As if he wasn't sure how she'd react.

It set her teeth on edge. It felt as if she were waiting for a volcano to explode. Knowing that it had to happen sometime, the waiting was becoming so unbearable that Nicky was tempted to provoke David until he lost that rigid control. He wouldn't hurt her, she knew that, and having him yell at her would be a relief because then she could yell back. _Not that he deserved it_.

The shower facets turned off with a squeak. A length of yellowed linen hung from the doorway was the only thing that separated the bathroom from the bedroom. Nicky sat down on the closest bed. She inched down until the mirror was in view. This David was so private she was worried that he was hiding something from her.

What she saw in the mirror brought Nicky to her feet, gasping. She thrust the curtain aside to stare, transfixed at the scars that marred his once familiar body. The two circular scars from Wombosi were bad enough, but the scars, front and back, on his left shoulder were horrific.

"What happened?" She heard the dismay in her own voice.

He met her eyes in the mirror. "Russian cop."

Unable to resist the sudden need, Nicky traced the scars with her fingers while her eyes filled with tears. She could hear his indrawn breath as he tensed under her touch. Nicky jerked her hand away. "Sorry."

He drew the curtain shut as she retreated into the bedroom.

Nicky's whole body seemed to ache. _He couldn't bear to have me touch him_. It would be so easy. She'd been doing it ever since Berlin. Let herself retreat to some private space inside herself to let the latest trauma, the latest blow drift away. The numbness helped her. Had gotten her out of Tangiers without clinging to David and begging him not to leave her alone. Nicky clenched her fists until her fingernails pricked her palms deep enough to draw blood. A small pain to cope with the larger pain of his rejection. She took deep breaths, calming herself. _I swore to stop being a coward. Not more hiding behind silence. _

As he stepped back into the room, Nicky said, "David. Please. We need to talk."

He tossed his shaving kit on the desk. "Why do you call me David?"

The unexpected question made Nicky blink. "You told me to."

"When we were together in Paris?"

"Yes." Odd how a single question could make every nerve quiver. It was David's voice, his eyes, the way he held himself that told Nicky that this wasn't a casual discussion. _As if conversations with him ever are_. She felt her shoulders sag as she remembered that it hadn't always been this way. They'd had fun together.

"You already knew it though."

"Knew what?" Nicky was confused again.

"My name. You knew my file." David grimaced and looked away.

Nicky felt it too, the way those simple words raised the ugly memory of Alexanderplatz. He'd said those same words then. She let it go. "No. Not your personnel file."

Those penetrating blue eyes shifted back to her face.

"I had access to all mission prep files," Nicky said, answering the unspoken question. "After-action assessments and medical reports. That's all." She added, "Conklin was fanatical about need-to-know. I had the information needed to do my job and that was it."

"Did you know what you were getting into?"

Another change of direction. As usual these days, David was keeping her off balance. This was the one question that she'd been dreading. She wanted to plead innocence. To tell him something believable, tell him that Conklin had deceived her. Except it would be a lie, another betrayal of David's trust. Her stomach clenched with a familiar pang, knowing that the truth might cause him to leave her. Nicky straightened her back and said, "My teacher in Medieval lit spent a lot of time on Machiavelli. Machiavelli asked if any government can survive if it lives by the same moral code it enforces on its people."

David was too smart not to understand what she was saying. "Conklin told you what Treadstone was before you joined."

"I don't want you to despise me. I know you hate what they had you do," Nicky licked dry lips. "Conklin, the others, they never explained why anyone was targeted. Yet not all of them were innocents. Some of them were monsters. You should know that."

"Did you know what they did to us? To make us Treadstone?"

"No. God no!" Nicky leaned forward. "Daniels told me."

"When?"

"After Berlin. He had me transferred to Madrid. Because of you." Nicky sat back to lean against the headboard and sat up straighter. The stitches were pulling and the mild ache she'd been feeling all day was getting worse. "Daniels said when they killed Conklin it was over for him. He was so angry that-"

The lights flickered off and came back on. Once, then again.

David was on his feet in a heartbeat.

Someone was outside their door.


	25. An Amusement

Winter Bourne

Chapter 23 An Amusement

_Jason Bourne_

The light warning that someone was outside the door flashed again. Jason checked the monitor. Two scruffy looking college-aged boys were standing there. As the taller one knocked on the door, Jason swiveled the camera along the hallway. It was empty. Their visitors' body language was loose, relaxed. Both were unarmed. Not a threat. Not yet reassured, Jason darted to the window to scan the parking lot, ignoring Nicky who sat frozen on the bed. No new cars were there since the last time he'd checked. No suspicious activity or, worse, a lack of regular activity on the streets surrounding the hostel. Everything looked normal. The odds that the boys were a decoy for a real threat dropped to near zero. Jason flicked through a set of possible actions and associated consequences. Discarding one choice after another, he made his decision barely twenty seconds after that first knock. Standing to one side of the door, he called out in German, "_Who is it_?"

"_Uh, hallo? We are having an amusement_," a Spanish flavored voice answered in a poor attempt at German. "_Down in the large room. We invite you and its lady friend_."

"_Thank you. We'll come_," Jason said. He waited, watching the monitor until they walked down to another guest door. He cast a glance around the room to evaluate how long it would take to clean up and get out. At least Nicky was fastidious with her things organized in one neat pile.

"I'm not going," Nicky said.

Jason glanced at her. Nicky's voice was calm, but her hands were clenched into fists. He said, "It's a hostel. We'd stick out more by not attending."

"I know why you're doing this. You're going to pack me off with a bunch of kids."

"It'd be safer."

"Not for them."

Jason froze. Did she suspect?

"I don't have your training, or your brains, but I'm not stupid."

She had a tell, a habit that betrayed her nervousness. Nicky was doing it now. Running a hand through her hair, currently a soft chestnut color that suited her fair coloring. He waited, uncertain. He didn't know her well enough to judge if she was playing him or if she truly understood the situation.

"They found me in Brussels, but they waited. For you."

She had some of the puzzle. Jason nodded. "Another bad decision by Blackbriar because you caught on and ruined their plan."

"Amazing isn't it? How you happened to arrive in Brussels just at the right time to rescue me." She tilted her head at him. "How long were you watching them watching me?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, he said, "Not that long."

She looked away then, and he could no longer guess what she was thinking. She was doing it again. Instead of yelling at him, she hid her emotions behind a polite mask, retreating to some private place that he couldn't follow.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't," Nicky cut off his awkward attempt at an apology. "I understand. You were gathering intel on Blackbriar. Operatives. How they work."

"Yes."

"Wait. That doesn't make sense." Nicky frowned. "Of course, the CIA wants us. Why does Blackbriar come after us? Why would they think you'd come for me? If they thought that I was bait for you, why didn't they grab me? They would have had a lot more control if I were a hostage."

No, she didn't have the full picture. Jason had wanted to give Nicky more time before scaring her more that she already was. He gave her a partial truth. "They were overconfident. Made too many mistakes. It's why we got away."  
For once, Nicky wasn't letting him evade her. She turned back to face him and folded her arms across her chest, the very image of stubbornness. "What are you not telling me?"

Jason couldn't meet the sudden fierceness in her eyes. He dragged over one of the ratty armchairs to the bed and sat down next to her. He couldn't think of a way to soften it. "Blackbriar was after you, Nicky. Not me. I'd have been a hostage for them. To make you do what they wanted."

She took it like the blow it was. He watched the fear and surprise melt into confusion. She adjusted. Her chin went up. "You knew Blackbriar was after me? What do they want?"

"I don't know." Jason paid attention not Nicky's obvious expressions, the ones that said she was confused, uncertain. He watched for those subtle, impossible to control micro-expressions that exposed true intent. "I think you do."

She startled, her whole body responding as if from another sudden strike. He hadn't it thought it possible for her to get paler. Beads of perspiration appeared at her hairline.

"I don't. David, I swear I have no idea."

He believed her. It changed things.

"Why didn't you ask me before now?" Nicky asked.

Jason looked down at his hands, noting the way his fingers were twisting together. Alarmed that his self-control was slipping, he rubbed his hands along his thighs, and then settled them in his lap. He wondered if Nicky realized how frail she looked. She'd lost weight she couldn't afford. The infection hadn't helped. The effect of weaning off the painkillers hadn't been pleasant either. Now he was hurting her more, and he had to hope that she'd be strong enough to take it. "Figured you needed time to heal."

Nicky just looked at him. "Is this why we're not in South America right now? Why we doubled back to Bremen? You're going after Blackbriar?"

He shook his head. "We need to figure out what they want first. Then we can decide what to do." A quick check of his watch and he stood, holding out a hand. "Let's go downstairs."

"Brussels first."

"Oh." Jason sat back down. "What do you remember?"

She frowned. "I recognized a man. Guess that he had to be a tail. Got scared and ran…"

Listening, Jason made mental notes, matching what Nicky said against what he'd witnessed. Overall, Nicky had done better than he'd have expected. She had prepared a plan, prepped a disguise and get-away kit, and had executed it without hesitation. If there hadn't been both a CIA and a Blackbriar crew after her, she would have had gotten away. Her biggest failure was not noticing that she'd been found at least eight days before that.

"… then someone grabbed me. It was Tom Cronin."

"You knew him?"

"He was Landy's right hand man." Nicky looked away. Her shoulders drooped. "He was one of the good guys."

"Who would have put you in handcuffs and sent you to back to Langley for arrest, interrogation and twenty years in Federal prison." Jason said. He could have added execution, but it would have been an unneeded cruelty. He didn't have much faith in Landy's promises of immunity.

"Doing his job, I know." She bit her lips and added. "Just wish Tom didn't have to die."

Jason felt his gut clench. He should have been paying more attention to her body language. Nicky was feeling conflicted. She'd known this man, had worked with him and was having a hard time seeing him as an enemy. She'd been careful not to criticize Jason for killing him, but was grieving enough to protest his death. He wondered if she'd believe him when he said, "I didn't kill him, Nicky."

She took an audible deep breath. Those deep brown eyes met his. "Then what did happen?"

"When you went into the restaurant and ran up the stairs, I guessed you'd been made. I went outside–" Jason was cut off again.

"You were in the restaurant?" She sprang to her feet.

She seemed upset. Jason wasn't sure why. Frowning, he said, "I already told you I'd been watching you."

Nicky sank back down on the bed, her arms wrapped around her shoulders. She'd turned away from him again.

"What's wrong?" Jason asked.

"I was so scared all the time." Her voice was low, thready with remembered pain. "If I'd known you were there, I wouldn't have been so afraid."

"That's exactly why I couldn't tell you."

She gave him a hard look that softened as comprehension dawned. "Because my body language would have changed. It would have made them suspicious."

"Right."

The anger and tension keeping her back rigid drained away. "Go on. Please."

Jason backtracked. "Let's see. Right. Oh, yeah, I'd found your get-away gear a couple of days before, so I had a good idea of what you'd do. When you ran upstairs, I went outside to run interference, if you needed it. You did good. The Blackbriar tail didn't even notice when you walked by him. It was the CIA that spotted you. Blackbriar must have been monitoring the CIA channels, because then they all started after you."

"It was Blackbriar I went after first. Started on the outliers and worked forward. Got a lucky break and found their ops vehicle. Broke in and disabled their comm. Once that was down, they lost their situational awareness. Drove it over to the Sheraton complex and down to the subway."

Nicky looked confused and she held up a hand. "Wait? How can you drive down to the subway?"

Shrugging, he said, "Used the staircases. The walkway at the bottom's wide enough for two cars. Wasn't that bad."

"Holy Mother of God! That's crazy."

"Had to get in front of the chase." It hadn't felt like a crazy idea at the time. He'd needed to hurry and had had few options. At the same time, another mental thread made a note that Nicky was Catholic. The constant dissection of speech patterns and observation wasn't a process he could turn off. It annoyed him that his unconscious was continuing to treat Nicky as a hostile, not a friend. Then a thought startled him out of his conversation. The realization that Jason Bourne had not and did not have friends. Hadn't needed that set of social skills. No wonder he was so uneasy around Nicky. Her association with Treadstone kept all of his training in play, even when he wanted to trust her.

"Jason?"

He blinked. "Sorry. Uh, anyway, I left the van at the top of the escalators and went to find you."

"By following the sound of the gun-fight?"

"Right. Figure it must have started when someone recognized a member of the opposite team."

Nicky showed her surprise. "They weren't shooting at me?"

"Not likely."

"Oh." She gave him a crooked smile. "Guess that's good news."

"Anyway, I caught up with you." He shrugged. "You know the rest."

Nicky gave him a stiff nod. Her face was showing an odd mixture of relief and sadness. "Did I thank you for my life yet?"

"Yes." He had to force it, but he managed to smile at her. It wasn't her fault that he'd killed again to protect her. Interesting that Nicky didn't ask if he'd killed the man who'd murdered her friend. She wasn't nearly as cold or ruthless as she thought she was. "I've got a question for you. How did you spot the tail?"

"His shoes," Nicky said. "Different outfit, but same shoes. It made me look at his face a second time and I realized I'd seen him before."

"Good." Jason kept any criticism to himself. Nicky had focused on the small, but had never seen the bigger picture. If she had, she'd have seen that the antennas sprouting on the neighboring buildings day by day and the fleet of vans following her wherever she went. He couldn't blame Nicky. She didn't have the training he'd been given.

He stood a second time. Held out his hand again.

This time she didn't refuse him. Nicky slipped her hand into his, let him help her. Her hand was soft and he resisted the urge to let it linger in his own. He let it drop. Turned away to give himself a moment to recover his calm and dragged the chair back away from the bed.

"We should go downstairs. Just for a half an hour or so." He held the door open for her. "When we get back we can talk about Daniels."

He heard her sigh, but she didn't protest.

It was going to be a long night, but he'd pushed it off as long as he could. If he didn't get answers soon, they might never be free of Blackbriar. He hoped that by now Landy had gotten something useful out of the last package he'd sent her.

--

_Pamela Landy_

"You know, Pam. Most guys send woman they like flowers." CIA Director Carson shook his head in mock dismay. He gestured to the two Blackbriar operatives, drugged and chained on their beds. "Your boyfriend keeps sending you bodies."


	26. Moving On

Winter Bourne

Thanks to everyone who is still reading this story! Never thought it'd take me so long, or that I'd end up writing so much. Am still having fun with it, so haven't tried to truncate it to hurry to an ending, though I'm getting there. Just wish I could write faster! Teal Moon

Chapter 24 Moving On

--

_Jason Bourne_

Jason shut the door to their room behind Nicky. The hostel's guests had been a rowdy bunch, mostly young men in their twenties, ready to have fun. They'd welcomed Nicky with eagerness and a foaming local lager. Jason had taken the drink they pressed into his hand, and then faded into the background, watching Nicky blossom under the open admiration. Knowing the darkness ahead, he'd let them linger longer at the party then he'd planned.

They'd teased and flattered her in a half dozen languages. He'd never seen her laugh before. It made something in his chest ache. It was worse when the remote mask she wore around him slipped back into place when he gave her a signal that it was time to leave.

His voice came out harsher than he'd intended. "We're leaving. Now."

Nicky turned around, startled. "You're not sending me away with them?"

He gave her a sardonic look.

"What? Why is that a dumb question?"

"You didn't see it?" Jason had a hard time believing that she hadn't understood what was so obvious to him. He made the explanation short. "Julio and Stefan. They already don't like each other. You'd be a reason for them to turn that dislike into a war. That's not a good place for you to be."

"Oh."

She looked unsettled. Unhappy. _Good_. Jason was pleased. _She's not the kind of woman who liked causing trouble_.

"I thought you wanted to talk about Daniels," Nicky said.

"We can talk on the way."

She nodded. Nicky packed and was ready to go by the time Jason finished his final wipe-down. He stuffed the remaining trash into a plastic bag and picked up his own gear. "If anyone asks, we're catching the overnight train to Hamburg."

"Where are we going?"

"Italy. Pisa."

She'd fallen asleep before they were five miles down the road. Nicky had had a rough night yesterday. He'd made her tramp out in the cold and snow for an hour. Then she'd gotten no more than an hour or two of solid sleep. The she'd had to walk back out. She hadn't complained, but she'd been drooping by the time they arrived at the hostel. With her admitted ignorance of what Daniels had done to turn her into a target for Blackbriar, he'd be pushing her hard to ferret out what he needed. It wouldn't be pleasant for either of them.

He let her sleep.

When Jason woke Nicky, it was only to get her into a room at a fourth-rate motel near the Italian border. She was groggy from too much beer and not enough sleep. She managed to undress and collapsed into the bed, asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

He envied her that ability. He doubted he'd get much sleep, but he tried. Pulling out a spare duvet, he made a bed on the floor. He kept turning over their conversation earlier in the day, wondering how much Nicky really knew about him. Or rather, what she'd known about David Webb. He'd told Hirsch that he was no longer Jason Bourne, but he knew, with a feeling of regret that he would never again be that naïve man who walked into Treadstone headquarters, willing to lay down his life for a cause.

He fell asleep then; let the dreams drown out his thoughts. In this dream, a new one, he knew where he was, knew what he was doing. He was a fledging Jason Bourne undergoing yet another training course. This teacher, a humorless ancient with skin like rotted oatmeal, called herself Mrs. Andover. She handed Jason a notebook, a pen, a compass and a set of directions.

"You have two hours to go to these eight locations and return," she said. Her French accent was flavored with the Provencal dialect. "At each location, face east and draw what you see."

Jason waited for more instructions.

Mrs. Andover held up her wrist and tapped her watch. "What are you waiting for?"

The locations were spread across the length and breadth of New York City. All of the locations were tourist destinations including the Rockefeller ice rink, the top of the Empire State Building and the Restaurant on the Green.

Jason spent eight precious minutes at the nearest subway station poring over a map to plot out his itinerary. He spent another five minutes figuring out timelines between locations using different transportation options. He figured that he'd have at the most three minutes at each stop to complete a drawing. He hustled; using taxis for some of the locations, sometimes the subway, and twice ran through Central Park. He made it back to the training class with seven minutes to spare. He handed over his drawings. He sat down, wiping sweat off his face with a handful of napkins snitched from the coffee bar outside the room.

Mrs. Andover leafed through them. Then she handed them back.

"I'm going to show you a set of drawings of the same locations." She clicked a control. The screen lit up and three set of drawingss appeared on an oversized screen at the front of the conference room.

"Compare your drawings to these. Tell me the difference."

It took a few minutes for Jason to see it. "The focal points are different."

"Explain."

"The focus in my drawings is on specific objects in the foreground with less detail about anything else." Jason tapped his drawing of a fire truck parked outside the Empire State Building. He'd spent more time drawing the fire truck than on the row of buildings behind it. "These other drawings provide better details about the overall view, a more panoramic scene."

"Good. That's correct. Can you tell me why there's a difference?"

"I don't know."

Her smile was full of amused malice. "Because you're an American. These other drawings," she flicked a hand to the screen, "were done by Europeans and Asians."

Jason's confusion must have been apparent.

"So much the individual that it defines the way you Americans look at this world." Mrs. Andover shook her head. "Even that you see in pieces. Never the whole. You must change that."

"How?"

Mrs. Andover gave him another of those peculiar smiles. It made the skin crawl on the back of Jason's neck. "I will teach you. As well as teach you techniques to improve that already splendid memory you have."

"I've taken memory improvement classes."

She smiled. "Not like these, I do assure you."

Jason woke up with his heart pounding, his head tight with one of his bad headaches. His stomach turned over when he thought he smelled burned flesh. He rubbed his wrists, fingers skimming over faded scars from sessions with that woman.

In the darkness, in silence, Jason dressed, eager to get outside and let exercise and a cold wind blow away the clinging memories.

Some things from his past he didn't want to ever remember.


	27. Breakfast with Tea and Conversation

Chapter 25

Breakfast with Tea and Conversation

Very sorry for the long break. Wanted to progress the story but this short scenario kept intruding so I had to write it.

_Nicky Parsons_

Nicky was making breakfast. In a room without a kitchenette, her options were limited. With an electric teapot, she had hot water ready for instant oatmeal and tea. She added raisins to the bowls and put down bananas on makeshift paper towel placemats. It wasn't much, but after the last couple of days, she wanted to make an effort. After a critical look at the table, she straightened the spoons, wishing she had some daises or carnations to add cheeriness to the bland hotel room. The sounds of the water running stopped.

It had been a quiet night. Nicky had fallen asleep within minutes. She'd woken at the noise of the door opening as David came back from his morning run. He was up to his eyebrows in mud and slushy snow. He'd given her a brisk nod and gone directly into the bathroom. He was so private. That hadn't changed from their time together in Paris either.

Nicky turned up the teapot, wondering how long she could fake normal around David. Since they'd left Brussels, he seemed to shift between two moods, somber or glum. _Of course, he does have good reasons_. He didn't speak of it, but she knew that he was grieving for Marie. Coming to her rescue meant that David hadn't been able to step away from his past. As grateful as she was, it was hard for her to meet his eyes, when she knew that he'd be so much better off without her. Until last night, when she'd let herself feel something other than guilty. It had felt good to be around normal people who lived in a world without fear gnawing at them every minute of every day. She wanted so much to have that kind of life again.

The bathroom door opened. David's hair was damp from the shower. Nicky had to clench the teapot's handle to keep herself from smoothing stray hairs off his forehead.

"Morning," Nicky poured boiling water into the ready cups and bowls. She forced a smile. "Have some breakfast."

David didn't move at first. He looked at the table. Touched a banana with one finger as though to test its reality, then scanned the rest of the room.

Nicky took her own seat. She pretended not to see the wary expression on David's face as he sat down opposite her at the makeshift breakfast table she'd made from the TV stand. _Sad to think that I've been so depressed that when I act normal, David acts as if I might have been replaced by a pod person during the night_.

She held up a banana. "You did say I could start eating again, right?"

"Food that's easy to digest, yes. And you need-"

"-fiber supplements, lots of water." Nicky added. "I remember."

Silence hung over the table as they ate.

"You made tea the way I like it." David took another sip. "Thanks."

"It's one thing you were always particular about," Nicky said, trying for a light note. "Strong, but not too strong. A splash of milk, no sugar."

David stopped eating.

Nicky's heart sank at the expression on his face. As if she'd hit him. "What did I say? I'm sorry."

He waved away her concern. Gave her a tentative smile. "It seemed odd. That's all. That I've forgotten so much, but somehow I like tea the same way I did back then, when I was a different person."

_When I was a different person_. It hit Nicky then. What she hadn't wanted to face. Her David was gone. _Gone_. The emotional blow to her gut must have shown on her face. David was giving her one of his wary, concerned looks.

Nicky dropped her eyes, digging her spoon into her oatmeal. She'd hoped, _no, don't lie to yourself! _I pretended to myself that I would rescue him, that I'd find some way to trigger his memories, bring _my_ David back. A beat of sadness turned into a physical pain that threatened to break her fragile control over her emotions. _No, dammit, I won't start sniveling again_. She straightened her shoulders. It was time to give that dream up. Under the sadness, a new certainty emerged. No matter what his name, this man, this brave man was who she wanted. More than anything.

Perhaps too it was time to give up her insistence on calling him 'David'. Before she wimped out, Nicky asked a question that she'd long wanted to. "After Paris, when they questioned me back at Langley, they kept asking me that if you really did have amnesia why did you called yourself Jason Bourne. It seemed like too much of a coincidence that of all the identities in the bank box, that you'd pick that one by accident. Why did you?"

She took it as a sign of his comfort level with her that he let her see his momentary confusion. "Oh. That's right. Your bosses knew that name meant something. I didn't. Not until New York. It was just another name to me then."

_What happened to you in New York_? Nicky debated asking that question, but she wanted to hear this story first. "It was just a coincidence?"

He nodded. "The Jason Bourne passport was the only one I found. At first." His eyes slid to the right, as if he were reliving it. "After two weeks of not knowing who I was, I thought I'd found out my real name." He paused for a heartbeat. "Then I found the other passports."

Emotions leaked through his words, letting Nicky sense some of what he must have been going through.

"That must have been devastating," Nicky said.

Another curt nod. He went back to his oatmeal.

_He's such a guy. Show a little emotion, then clam up._ She bit her lip, then decided to prod. "What should I call you?"

That got her another look, a shrug. "Landy asked me that too. You've been calling me David."

Nicky took it as permission to keep using that name. She peeled the banana, careful not to make it suggestive of anything other than a girl being hungry. David wasn't ready for that yet. It was tempting though. She flicked him a glance under her lashes, considered tripping him into the bed and jumping on top of him. She was pretty sure he'd let her. The problem was what happened after that. Marie's death was so recent. If their situations were reversed, Nicky knew that eventually she'd feel that he'd taken advantage of her. _Wouldn't a guy feel the same way?_ Nicky wasn't sure. Except her gut said to wait.

He was almost finished eating. Nicky wondering if she could press him for more memories. Or ask if he was ever confused about who he was. _I'm not a shrink_. Messing around with the emotions of a man who had every sign of suffering from post traumatic stress would be plain stupid. What if she ended up hurting him more? No, David needed more help than she could give him to talk about those issues. She decided to ask David about factual things. Things that she hoped wouldn't hurt him.

"Another question Langley asked me; if you didn't know who you were, why didn't you go to the police for help?"

David blinked a couple of time. "It never occurred to me."

"Why didn't it?"

Now there was a hint of amusement in his face. "Nicky, the gear I was wearing, the LED in my thigh, the wounds in my back. It was plain I wasn't tourist."

"Oh, right."She laughed out loud.

"What?"

"Well now that I think about it, it was a pretty dumb question."

"Nicky."

"Yes?"

"Now it's my turn."

Despite the gentleness of his tone, it caused Nicky instant stress. Her throat tightened and she could feel herself tense. _Here it comes. Will I really be able to tell him the truth about everything? _


	28. Blackbriar Unraveling

Winter Bourne

Chapter 26 Blackbriar Unraveling

_(First of all an apology for not posting sooner. I didn't realize that it'd been so long. Thanks for the reminder, Morningstar67. This chapter has some upfront moving the plot along stuff, but finishes with Jason and Nicky. Again, I was really interested in what Bourne Ultimatum didn't tell us, because as much as I love the movie, some of it doesn't make sense. Especially who Nicky is. Not that my ideas are the right ones! Just one way things could have been. Maybe. Thanks for sticking with this story. Holy Hannah! It's been over a year since I first started this. More to come, and at shorter intervals!)_

--

Pamela Landy

"…your boyfriend keeps sending you bodies …"

Amid the muffled chortling from the men around her, Pamela made a mental note to herself. Reminder, Director Carson is an ass. Avoid at all costs. Except that wasn't practical, and Pamela was, among many other things, a very practical woman. She gave him a frigid smile, but avoided glaring at him. Stupid to antagonize a man who could terminate my employment with a few words. Putting uncomfortable thoughts like how long she'd remain alive once she left Langley, Pamela turned her attention back to more immediate problems. She gestured to the monitor where the image of the prisoners was displayed. "These men should be separated. Immediately."

"Why?"

Why? Pamela took a conscious breath. With the new rules she was living under, Carson must have gotten Jason's information sooner than she had. He was too politic to let his face reveal his thoughts; Pamela had no idea if he was really that dumb or if it was a test. Deciding to be cautious, she did that thing that woman do when their talking to a superior she didn't want to publicly embarrass. She assumed the blame for his failure. "I'm sorry, sir. Apparently you didn't get the report. Bourne indicated that Paz was attacked by two other Blackbriar operatives. Paz kill one of his attackers and wounded the other, but was hurt himself during the struggle."

They were smart folks. They got it.

"But they're chained, and drugged. They can't hurt anyone. Anyway, it was probably Bourne that shot them." This was from one of Carson's junior flunkeys. From behind Carson's back, the woman was giving Pamela a look as if she'd scored a major point.

Pamela took her assessment back. Most of Carson's aides were smart. Pamela shook her head, shifted her body away and focused her attention on Carson. It was one of her more practiced moves, one that told the recipient that they'd just said something so dumb that they were no longer worthy of her attention.

"You heard Pam. Have them separated," Carson ordered. One of the fresh faced youngsters surrounding him stood up and hustled out of the conference room. Carson continued, "Anything else?"

Pamela dipped her head in acknowledgement of the director's immediate support. "I've like a level four protocol initiated. It'll make sure that we're taking the right precautions to hold hostiles with their kind of training."

"That's pretty severe, Pam. Thought you were working with one of them. Another one of your many mistakes?"

The voice came from the doorway. It was Martin. Former boss, current enemy. She'd briefed him and Director Carson on everything that she'd been doing, including her handful of contacts with Bourne. For some reason, every time they'd met recently Marty seemed determine to denigrate her.

"That's enough," Carson's sharp tone was a reprimand. "Maybe I'm coming from behind on all this mess and how we got here, but I damn well want to have a plan to handle it before we leave this room. Landy's the only one who has show any progress on this situation and as far as I'm concerned, she's still leading the charge."

"Sir, we cannot trust this woman," Martin argued. "She's consistently lied to her superiors. She actively undermined Sloane. She defied Sloane's orders to find and capture Bourne by sneaking out and meet with him! If she'd clued us in, we'd have Bourne in custody right now and this would be over. Over. Sloane has a heart attack before he could get it done, but I want her officially reprimanded, if not fired."

"I trust her," Carson said.

"Really?" Martin swiveled in his seat to face Pamela. "Who's got your phone, Pam? Have a computer with an Internet access?"

Pamela watched the men with arms folded across her chest and her eyes on the table. It was clear that this contest had nothing to do with her. She was just the excuse. Martin had hit on a sore point though. When Carson had learned that Jason had contacted her about his latest run-in with Blackbriar, he'd ordered some changes. Pamela wasn't allowed to carry a phone or touch a computer with Internet access. Carson wasn't taking any chances that Jason could contact her without him knowing about it.

"Don't answer that." Carson leaned across the table. "You like dealing with facts, don't you, Marty? So, here's a fact. We now have three Blackbriar operatives in custody. Who do we have to thank for that?"

Marty took a deep breath. His voice was grating as he said, "Bourne."

"Do you think that Bourne would have brought them to anyone else here besides Pam?"

Another deep breath. "No."

"I've removed Pam from direct access to comms to provide cover for her. I don't want anyone, like you just did, Marty, to claim that Pam's running a game on us. Makes us look bad. Makes _me_ look bad. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Marty had regained his composure.

"Another fact that you may have forgotten that someone inside this agency tried to kill Pam, but I haven't. The bodyguards were assigned in case her investigation gets someone so nervous that they're willing to attack her here."

"That seems unlikely." Marty shrugged. "Actually, I'm interested in finding out what happened in Germany. Pam's report was a little thin during that last brief. Is it confirmed that Parsons was injured?"

"Yes, she was hurt during the Brussels incident. Here's the report from the paramedic." Pamela shoved the file across the table. The paramedic's report had been published in the papers and online, so it was pointless to try to conceal it. It also made Pam seem as if she was cooperating with Marty. "The report said the injury was life-threatening. It explains why Bourne was found so fast by Blackbriar. They knew she need to be taken to a medical facility and that narrowed the search parameters."

"Speaking of Blackbriar," Marty said. "I've heard that you have a third Blackbriar asset in custody. What has he told you?"

Pamela restrained herself from shooting a look at Carson. Everything that had happened the night of the CNN interview with the phony Jason Bourne should have been known only to a handful of people, and Marty hadn't been on the need-to-know list. Bob Shipperton's death had been reported as a car accident. The Blackbriar operative that Bourne had taken down and given into her custody was also in the hospital ward here at Langley. Except no one except Sloane had known who he really was. Pamela had given the unconscious man a cover identity as one of her spies from Georgia. A country that was suffering from an invasion by Russia gave Pamela a very credible reason for having him here. All she'd told the doctor was that his cover had been exposed and that he'd been injured escaping from Russian agents. The doctor, an old hand, had given her a jaded look and commented on how slowly the man healed since his injury looked mere hours old.

"Nothing that we didn't already know," Carson answered Marty's question. "How did you find out about him?"

"Sloane told me that he was another present from Bourne. It's unfortunate that Pam couldn't convince Bourne to come in." Marty swung his head to give her a condescending look. " I'm mean that's twice that you've met him, right? Twice that you failed to bring him in."

Pamela knew what he was doing. Marty thought she was failing and that he'd just tossed her a live hand grenade where she'd have to admit her failures in front of the CIA's new chief. She defused it with a cool smile, received a nod from Carson and slid a black folder out of the stack in front of her. She flipped it open. "While I'd like to interview the two latest Blackbriar detainees first," Pamela deliberately avoided the word 'asset'. It offended her that any CIA operative would use it to refer to another agency member, no matter what the Blackbriar training had done to them. "… for confirmation, with the leads that Bourne gave us and the results of the deep dive that the analysts did on every scrap of information we had on Blackbriar and Treadstone, we have a _prima facie_ case against the most likely candidate to take over the Blackbriar operation and turn its people against this agency."

"Really?" Marty's voice was calm. "Who would that be, Pam?"

"You, Marty. It's you."

--

_Jason Bourne_

In bringing death to others for Treadstone, he'd lost so much of himself, shredded pieces of his soul away until some secret corner rebelled, and the price for that rebellion was to lose himself completely. Without his name, without a past, he'd met his future in the back alley of the American embassy in Switzerland. He'd lost Marie when together they'd discovered what he'd been, a man who killed on command, a man who in turn was targeted for death. In Paris, he'd thought that he could leave that past behind when he'd warned Conklin to tell the CIA to leave him alone. Month after month he'd crept though ancient cities, avoiding people, in a state of numbness that didn't allow him to see the wonders around him. It wasn't until he found Marie again, in her sunny restaurant by the ocean that the world had color again. With her beside him, he'd relaxed enough to appreciate being alive, truly aware what a gift every day that he shared with her was.

Now he'd lost Marie forever. She was gone, buried in a grave that he'd never dare visit. He couldn't put that loss behind him. Not now. Maybe not forever. Yet in some strange way, the young woman who sat before him held his future. Since New York, when he learned who he had been and he'd sworn that he would leave the bloody name of Jason Bourne behind him, it felt as every action he took remade him, reshaped him. He felt it, a certain surety that he couldn't explain, that what he did to Nicky would, for better or worse, define who he was forever.

It was an odd place to start an interrogation. A dinky hotel in the backwaters of Germany, barely ten miles from the border into Italy. His internal warning system, the one that got antsy when he stayed in one place too long, was silent. He'd done the best he could to buy them some time just for this conversation. It was better than trying to question her in the car. Now he could face Nicky full on, read her body language, gauge the amount of deception. Everybody lied, he knew that. She might even lie because she thought it was best for him.

Nicky was waiting for him to begin his questioning. On the surface she appeared calm, that remote mask she used to shield her emotions. She had give-aways though. Her breath had quickened. Her eyes skittered away. As he watched, Nicky crossed and re-crossed her arms to tuck her hands under her shoulders in a shielding move that told him how nervous she was.

Jason wondered if Nicky had any idea of how careful he'd been of her since Brussels. Careful not to get her hooked on painkillers. Careful to shield her from knowing too much of the trouble before and ahead of them. Careful of the way he treated her, the way he spoke, moderating even the way he moved to avoid frightening her. She had that startle reflex that many survivors of violence get, a reflex that had done nothing to help with her healing. These last few days, she seemed calmer overall. With her wound nearly healed, he didn't have to worry about a set-back. He got his notebook and pen, took his chair and gestured for her to move away from the homey little breakfast table. He sat back down opposite her, back ramrod straight, letting his sympathy for her drain away until the coldness of his purpose, the need for clear intel take over. He let his voice reflect that coldness.

"Tell me about Neal Daniels. You said he had you transferred to Madrid after Berlin. That he told you about Treadstone's training methods."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I told you. Neal said when Conklin was murdered by Treadstone it was all over for him."

He wasn't sure that a man who kept the Treadstone machine fed with innocents would be so dismayed by another death. Jason decided to return to that question later. "Did you know about Conklin? Why he was killed?"

"We were told that you'd killed him. It wasn't until Landy released Abbott's confession that I knew what had really happened."

"Who is 'we'?"

"The rest of Treadstone." Nicky added, "All of us who ran field offices were brought back to Langley for reassignment."

"You didn't think I did it?" Jason didn't know the actual timeline of Conklin's death. It was a plausible story that sometime later that same night he'd run into Conklin again and killed him.

"No. I didn't believe it." Nicky shook her head. "It didn't make sense after I heard you tell Conklin to pass along a message back to Langley to leave you alone. Besides, if you'd wanted him dead you would have killed him right there and then."

Jason tore off a sheet of paper and handed her a pen. "Write down the names of the other Treadstone operatives."

"No!" Nicky turned her face away, regained her composure. "I'm sorry, I can't do that."

"Why not?" He made his tone reasonable. "What do you think I'd do to them?"

Nicky didn't answer right away. "I don't think it matters what you _mean_ to do. I don't think you'd want to hurt them. Even if you didn't what matters is what happens after you talk to them."

He didn't like to hear it, but she had a point. Langley would be very unhappy with anyone who talked to him, willingly or not. The question was, should he pursue them as leads or not?

"Please. They don't know anything more than I do," Nicky said. "I'll tell you everything I know, I promise."

He let it go. For now. "What was your job in Madrid?"

He hadn't thought it possible, but Nicky actually turned paler. Sweat beaded her forehead. Her hands jerked down to clench together in her lap while her eyes flew to his. Her chest heaved as if she had to struggle to breathe. "I'm sorry."

"Tell me."

"The same job."

It touched a spot so raw that Jason was on his feet, leaning down to grab her shoulders with rough hands before he realized what he was doing. He let her go. Stepped back. Forced himself to stillness. With his eyes glued to her face, he asked, "_Blackbriar_? You're telling me that you were working for f--cking _Blackbriar_?"

A single nod.

Everything changed for him then.

Again.

--


	29. Shrink Labeling

Winter Bourne

Chapter 27

---

_Pamela Landy_

The separate lunch room off the main cafeteria in CIA's main building at Langley was deserted. With relief at successfully avoiding any of her colleagues, Pamela sank into a chair at one of long tables. She didn't want to talk about Marty. He was being questioned and Pamela had little doubt of the outcome. Her bodyguards, as she'd asked, seated themselves at another table.

Pamela eyed her lunch without enthusiasm. Since the day Bob Shipperton had died in New York and she'd found out that she'd been selected for assassination, she'd had lost most of her appetite. This morning she'd noticed a new gauntness to her face, her skin almost gray. She'd had to use a safety pin to make sure her skirt hadn't slipped off. With determination not to get sick, Pamela picked up the chicken salad sandwich and took a bite. _Tasteless_.

A shadow made her look up. A thin older woman with graying wiry hair sat down opposite her, putting a lunch tray down. "May I join you?"

The bodyguards were ignoring the stranger. Worse, they were actively avoiding her eyes. _Damn it_. Pamela knew what this meant. This was a pre-arranged meeting that no one had told her about. Not that she was afraid. It'd be a stupid place for an attack when there were over a hundred people less than ten feet away. Then she was surprised at her own level of paranoia when she realized that she didn't trust the men assigned to guard her. _Oh well_.

"How are you holding up, Ms. Landy?"

Pamela could feel her back stiffen. The word slipped out, an edge of derision to it, before she could censor herself. "Shrink."

The woman laughed. "You have great instincts."

"Sorry."

"No, no," the woman waved the apology away. "I've been called worse. Please, call me Susanna."

"Why here and now?"

"It was my suggestion." Susanna added, "Thought this was a little more friendly than an office visit."

"What is this about?"

"I was tasked to do a work-up on Jason Bourne."

Pamela added milk to her coffee. "Another one? How many does that make now?"

Another laugh. "I wouldn't know about that. I'll tell you this. Abbott had me do one when Bourne first went AWOL."

"It's not in his file." Pamela couldn't help the sudden surge of interest. "I want a copy."

"Of course."

"What did you want to know?"

"Your reports on your recent meetings with Bourne." Susanna picked up her own coffee. "I found them quite interesting."

The long drawn out pause between the words 'quite' and 'interesting', the amused glint in Susanna's eye, the way she was modeling Pamela's own posture. Pamela smiled. "You're good. Do you really think I'm going to buy into that '_just between us girl's thing'_ you're doing and confess that I left something off my reports?"

The good humor didn't leave Susanna's face. One eyebrow went up. "Did you?"

"That eyebrow thing? All it does is give you a very defined wrinkle above your eyebrow."

Susanna's face froze.

"I'm sorry." Pamela rubbed her temples. "That was mean. I'm not usually like that. It's just that it's been unusually difficult around here. Please accept my apology."

The shrink's eyes slid across to look at the bodyguards. "Yes, I can see that. Let's have a redo, yes? Please let me introduce myself, I'm Dr. Susanna Hoffman."

Pamela reached out across the table to shake hands. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Pamela Landy, currently suffering from foot-in-mouth syndrome."

They both smiled, more sincerely this time.

"Now it's my turn to apologize. I do need to speak to you about Bourne."

"What do you want to know?"

"Nothing."

Pamela didn't hide her surprise.

"I've been granted access to all information concerning Bourne," Susanna explained. "By the way, your reports were excellent. Filled with a level of detail once doesn't always find."

"Who authorized it?" Pamela wasn't surprised with Susanna said nothing, just gave her a blank look. _Oh, well_. _It was worth a shot_. "Please go on."

"I asked to speak with you because 'm afraid for the girl he's been traveling with."

"For Nicky? Why?" Pamela's stomach dropped. She didn't like the way the conversation was going. "I fid it hard to belive that Jason would rescue her only to hurt her himself."

"Conklin didn't want to hear what I had to say about Bourne. Are you at least willing to listen?"

Pamela nodded, aware that the shrink was trying to manipulate her by equating her actions to something the now discredited Conklin would do so that she would do the opposite. _She probably can't help herself_. Pamela leaned forward as Susanna recounted the by now familiar events.

"… I told Abbott and Conklin that Bourne was suffering from conversion hysteria. He'd been left alone in the field for far too long, pushed too hard and inevitably, he suffered a breakdown." Susanna shook her head. "I admire him, I do. The way that he's has been able to recover and function at such a high level after the manifestation of the original psychosis is remarkable." The doctor fell silent, appearing to brood for a moment.

"But," Pamela prompted her.

"Yes, but." The doctor looked up from her plate. "After this most recent trauma, I worry. The violent death of his lover and everything he's done and everything that's been done to him sicne. Everyone involved needs to be reminded that he broke once. Without any chance to process what has happened, to accept it, his emotional state must be brittle. If something triggers another meltdown, if he comes to see Nicky as a threat, even a minor one, I'm not sure how he'll react."

"You don't think he's stable?"

"How can he be?" Susanna pushed her plate away. "How many times has he had to fight since then? More significantly, he was shot less than 3 months ago. Now he's being actively hunted again, yes?"

"What do you think could happen?"

Another shrug. "I can't say for sure. If Nicky does anything to pull at his emotions, he may react in a way that ends… violently."

Another pang of sympathy swept through Pamela. Poor David Webb's life had been a hard one since the day he's assumed the name Jason Bourne. trying to give up that legacy hasn't made his live any easier. But unstable? Closing her eyes, she pictured the way he'd looked, acted, sounded. Stressed. _Oh yes_. He'd been stressed, but still very much in control. "I trust him."

"I hope your trust isn't misplaced." Susanna stood up.

"Can you give me practical advice on how to deal with him?"

"Yes. Make him feel secure. Safe."

Pamela stared at the woman. "Is that a joke?"

"No. Just an impossibility."

With that, Susanna was gone.

--

_Jason Bourne_

_Nicky was Blackbriar_.

Shock kept Jason motionless for long seconds. Then the trained observer that resided in the back of his brain, the part of him that assessed facts and made decisions, often before he was conscious of it, clicked on. His virtual playing cards flickered to life to form new patterns behind his mind's eye, forming inescapable conclusions. What it told him made him shake as a cold sweat broke out on his skin. For the first time since he was in the Ganges, desperate to breathe life into Marie, he was afraid.

_He should have known_.

He should have known the moment he saw Nicky in the CIA substation in Madrid. Why hadn't he know?

Something was very wrong with him. His vision went dim. A terrible creeping sensation of losing himself swept over him. Jason knew what it meant. He staggered back until he collapsed into the chair. He'd had attacks like this before. When the world dissolved around him and he was somewhere else, dragged unwilling unto some dark memory. A flash of a woman's face. A memory that flailed his raw emotions. In Paris, in some hotel room, Nicky was saying things to him that burned. Branding him a monster. He'd fled with relief into another mission. _Wombosi_. Where he'd lost himself.

it was Nicky's fault.

All of it.


	30. Melt Down, Part 1

Winter Bourne

Chapter 28, Melt Down, Part 1

(Well, I'd hoped to make updates faster, as well as shorter. So this is shorter, but definitely need to work on the quicker. Thanks for the excellent comments. Yes, the lady shrink is from the deleted scenes from Bourne Identity, and her words will impact Jason's future. Thanks so much to everyone who keeps reading!! I so appreciate it. Take care, Teal Moon)

_Jason Bourne_

_It was Nicky's fault._

_All of it._

Nicky confession that she was Blackbriar wrenched away Jason's control, triggering more suppressed memories. Even as his vision dimmed, Jason's gut wrenched at the realization of his own weakness. He'd thought that he was stronger, thought that those final, sickening revelations about his past by Dr. Hirsch in New York would have ended these episodes. Underneath the shame beat rage. A normal life, the life he could have had, had been stolen from him by a concerted series of betrayals, a thousand lies from people he'd trusted. Somehow this final betrayal from a woman he'd risked his life to rescue was a wound deeper than the others.

Another memory slid from hiding. He was in a sunny space, in a bed. Not his. A woman was laughing from behind him. Jason breathed in the strong sweet scent of roses and lavender that reminded him of something yearned for. A hand slid over his bare hip. Turning, he saw that familiar face. A smiling Nicky leaned forward to kiss him. Her soft mouth touched his, warm and eager. Then the moment slid away and he was back in Paris, hearing Nicky scald him with her fears again. This time, Jason didn't fight the memory. Against every instinct, he forced himself to let it flow through him, straining to capture her words, the expression on her face.

"I'm sorry. Why does this have to be so hard?"

Nicky turned away from him then and said, "It's just that I knew Azul. Now, he's dead and you-"

He'd left her then, without a word.

She'd been afraid of what he'd become. What he might do. He hadn't been ready to face it then. Instead he'd run. From the distance of years, Jason was ashamed that he hadn't been strong enough to stay with her, to face her fears together. Perhaps his life, Marie's life, Nicky's life, would have all turned out very different. No. He couldn't blame Nicky. She wasn't responsible for causing his meltdown on the Wombosi mission. He was. Some remnant of conscience had pulled him back from becoming a true monster, and he couldn't never regret that. All he could do was minimize the damage from the fallout of his decision to walk away from Treadstone.

The memories faded away. The episode was over and Jason was back in Germany, in a hotel room sitting across from a Nicky. He couldn't help a wave of shame that she'd witnessed his weakness. He couldn't see any condemnation in her troubled face, only sadness. He felt a wave of compassion for her. She'd been through so much. Seen too much. Nicky had bought into the same lies that he had and had been trapped, unable to just walk away from the CIA.

"Poor Nicky." His voice cracked, throat tight from too many emotions. He reached out instead and ran a thumb down a tear track on one soft cheek.

She gave a sob.

Then Nicky was in his arms.

_Everything's going to be different now._


	31. Melt Down, Part 2

Winter Bourne

Chapter 28, Melt Down, Part 2

[I remember saying I was going to update more often. Well, sorry about that! Thanks for continuing to read!]

_Nicky Parsons_

_--_

"_Blackbriar? You're telling me that you were working for f--cking Blackbriar?" _David asked.

Nicky couldn't help from shrinking at the anger in David's voice. She answered with a single nod, afraid to speak, afraid that anything she said would evoke a stronger reaction. A physical reaction. She kept her eyes drilled on his face, refusing to watch the way his hands clenched and unclenched.

What happened next made her stomach clench. David grimaced as if in sudden, severe pain. The intensity, the anger were gone. Empty eyes stared through her as he focused on some horrific internal landscape. Sweat beaded David's face. His head dipped, hands clenching his temples. He slid out of chair onto his knees, crouching over. His breathing was ragged, loud.

Nicky's own heart started beating like a trip hammer. A dawning horror, twinned with fear, kept her pinned to the chair. _He's having a breakdown_. Something inside David had crumbled, his tight control disintegrating. Gone. Forcing her trembling body to obey her, Nicky sank down to the floor, aching to reach out and comfort David. Despite that need, too many years of direct knowledge of what Treadstone had done to him held her back. Conklin had given her graphic warnings what could happen if she triggered one of his assassin's built-in protective behaviors. She'd be dead before he'd even knew what he'd done.

Not only helpless, she felt stupid. She should have known. It had been a deliberate self-delusion, taking his fearsome competence as an indication of his mental stability. She'd wanted to believe that somewhere in the past two years that David has reach normalcy, that the trauma that had caused his amnesia had healed itself. An uncomfortable memory of Tangiers nudged her conscience. David had sat in the grimy bathroom as she'd dyed her hair and told her what his few memories were like, revealing the true degree of his self-loathing. She hadn't known how to respond, hadn't know what to say to help him. Too many of her own memories, her own guilt had kept her from speaking. Then she'd shoved the uncomfortable memory away.

David made a sound, a deep guttural groan.

_I have no idea how to help him_. No matter what she felt about David, he'd kept such an emotional distance between them since he'd rescued her in Brussels that she had no idea how he felt about her. No idea what he really remembered. Maybe he'd blame her for this attack. Maybe he even blamed her for his amnesia._ I certainly blame myself. _Helpless, bleeding inside from his suffering, Nicky could only watch and wait, terrified by the extremes. From the impassive, dangerous Jason Bourne to a helpless man lying crumpled in agony on the floor in just seconds. All from another emotional blow that she'd delivered.

Then something changed. David's whole body shuddered, then sagged. The iron will reasserted itself. David's raw determination as he dragged himself up to his knees made her heart ache. Her eyes riveted to his face, she saw the shattered look before the impassive mask slid across his face. Underneath that deliberate, calm exterior she could sense his fear at the loss of his self-control.

David looked up then, his eyes touching hers, then flicked away, as if in shame. Then those blue eyes came back, meeting her gaze without heat. She didn't smile, afraid that he'd misinterpret it as contempt, as amusement at his collapse. Nicky needed now, more than ever, to keep her own mask intact, the façade she'd perfected under Conklin's hostile reign.

Then David said something so unexpected that her defenses crumbled.

"Poor Nicky."

Moving slowly as if to avoid frightening her, David ran a thumb down her cheek to capture one of the tears she'd been unable to suppress.

She heard herself sob. Too needy for using common sense, she threw her arms open and fell forward. He caught her, let her wrap her arms around his neck as he held her close.

It felt like home.


	32. Nicky's Resume

Winter Bourne

Chapter 30, Nicky's Resume

_Nicky Parsons_

Odd. So odd. All Nicky had longed for was now in her arms. David was holding her. Her head on his shoulder, her hands clinging to him. Breathing together. It felt wonderful. It felt right. The numbness that had kept her from crumbling, kept her functioning was melting.

Except that it wasn't the same as Paris. Something about the way David held himself. Not rigid. Not exactly. Not relaxed though, either. He held her, but didn't caress her. Didn't kiss her. Didn't even _try_ to kiss her. Nicky decided not to ask for more. Not right now. This yielding was more than she'd expected when Marie's death was so recent. Nicky didn't want him to do anything that would feel like a betrayal of Marie's memory. _I have to show him that I understand. That I don't resent it_. At least now she was sure that someday, when his pain had lessened, she'd be able to reclaim that space in David's heart that belonged to her.

With regret, Nicky eased away, releasing him. It hurt, but she wanted to show David that she was back in control of her emotions. Not sure what she should do or say, Nicky checked his face, his eyes. David seemed calm, but she would never forget what he'd looked like just minutes ago. Shattered. She never, ever wanted to see him in that kind of pain again.

David gave her an hesitant smile. It told her that he was feeling as uncertain as she did.

The sound of metal and glass smashing tore David's attention away. He was on his feet and at the door before she could do more than gasp.

"Car accident?" Nicky asked. She got to her feet, eyes darting around the tiny room to find an escape. Her heart was beating so fast she felt as if she were quivering as a jolt of adrenaline hit her. For one peaceful moment she'd forgotten that they were fugitives. Now a familiar fear swept over her. Questions raced though her mind. _Has Blackbriar found us? Was the crash deliberate? A trap to block the parking lot exit? Are we going to be attacked now?_

"Guy hit a light pole," David said. "Doesn't involve us."

His assessment was so fast that Nicky wouldn't have trusted it from anyone else, even if it'd come from another Treadstone operative. Seeing him like this, focused, intent and ready for violence was a sharp reminder of what he really was, no matter how he tried to escape it. Pamela had let her read Jason Bourne's personnel file. The complete one that described David Webb's life before Treadstone. He'd an Army captain who'd joined Special Forces as a Green Beret, then had been assigned to another elite team, Delta Force. Then he'd been recruited into Treadstone. As Jason Bourne he'd been active… _No. No more polite words to disguise the truth_… Jason Bourne had already been killing people for four years before she'd met him at the Paris safe house. She'd been his logistics support for three years after that. Then he'd been on the run for close to another three years. That added up to roughly twenty years of experience in staying alive in the face of the enemy.

So she trusted his judgment. Without question. It meant she could start breathing again. Her heart slowed back to normal.

"Are we leaving?" Nicky asked.

He checked his watch. Shook his head. "Not yet. We have time to finish."

"Finish?" A curious lurch of her heart caught Nicky off guard as hope surged. Then was dashed at David's expression. He was all business. No pleasure.

She curled up against the headboard of the bed nearest the door, unwilling to return to the chairs for another face off. Too uncomfortable, too much a reminder of his meltdown.

David carried a chair over and sat down facing her. Nicky caught what he was doing. It was a trained behavior for interrogating a friendly, sitting just far enough away to avoid intruding on her personal space but close enough to read the micro-expressions that would reveal any lies. Even the way he sat, shoulders relaxed, hands on spread knees to make himself seem less threatening was deliberate. She appreciated the effort. Though she wasn't afraid of him. If David hadn't hurt her when she'd told him the worst of it, then he'd have no reason to hurt her now.

"What happened to you? After Paris," David asked.

"They kept me at Langley for months."

He didn't quite wince. His eyes dropped, then came back up to meet hers. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "No one hurt me. I was under house arrest, though they didn't call it that. They put me through weeks of interrogation. Day after day. Asking me the same questions in a hundred different ways to see if I'd trip up. I didn't. After awhile they decided to believe me. I was retrained for information assurance, then reassigned to Amsterdam."

"You're smiling. Because you liked Amsterdam?"

"No," Nicky let her smile grow. "I was remembering some of the stupider things they asked me. Like why I didn't grab a gun and try to shoot you. Or why didn't I use my training to fight you. Or at least scream."

"You didn't because you were afraid of me."

Nicky heard the pain in his voice. Knew he was remembering the other times he'd held a gun on her. She softened her tone. "No. Because I loved you."

David's face froze again, those blue eyes flinching away. As if that idea hurt him worse. Nicky swallowed past the sudden lump on her throat. "Even if I hadn't cared about you, I've never been stupid enough to think I had a chance against a Treadstone operative. When they learned more about Treadstone, what you were capable of, they stopped questioning my reactions. Said I'd been smart to avoid provoking you."

"Is Amsterdam where you joined Blackbriar?"

"My primary job in Amsterdam was running infiltration programs on computer systems belonging to hostiles and making sure CIA systems weren't being hacked into."

"That's a big change from running logistics for Treadstone."

"Right. They didn't quite trust me. Not at first. I'm pretty sure I was under surveillance for at least a year." Nicky shrugged.

"They didn't trust you, but they used you as a hacker?"

"From the questions they asked me at Langley, they didn't think I was a traitor. Just a stupid woman who'd been seduced and used by you. That I'd try to help you."

"Why'd they believe that?"

"Because you didn't kill me."

David blinked. "I didn't kill Conklin either."

"Nobody knew that. Abbott let everyone think that you'd killed your own handler." She knew she'd told him this before, but she could see he was working out the logic that had led her to Blackbriar. She added, "Guess it was more incentive for the rest of the Agency to go after you."

"We were …involved. How did you kept that from them?"

Something in David's face told her more than the ambiguous words. _He does remember us_! A surge of happiness warmed her. Nicky took a deep breath to regain some calm. She blinked back tears, sure that David wouldn't understand their cause. She said, "You taught me how to keep a secret safe."

A sharp look. David opened his mouth, then shut it. Obviously changing the question he had been about to ask, he pressed again, "Blackbriar?"

"I guess they didn't want to waste my training. After a year. I was reassigned to another safe house in Amsterdam. Thought I'd be doing the same work. They gave me a room, a desk and an appointment. Thought it'd be with my new boss. Instead, a stranger walked in." Nicky had to swallow before going on. The memory could still bring back the fear. "I knew what he was as soon as I saw him. What it meant."

"No prep and they sent in a Blackbriar operative?" David shook his head. "It was a warning."

"Yes. A test too, I think." Remembering that day sent a shiver up Nicky's spine. She'd been unable to move, unable to breath while she waited to die. "My boss showed up after a minute. Send the operative away and told me I was being re-assigned back to my old job. That's the first time I heard the name Blackbriar."

"How many were run out of Amsterdam?"

"Operatives? A dozen. We lost five while I was there."

Another sharp look. "Over what, eight or nine months?"

"Right."

"That's a high causality rate." David frowned. "Ross told me that Blackbriar was a Treadstone upgrade."

"Daniels said that it was _supposed_ to be."

"He was your boss in Amsterdam?"

"No," Nicky shook her head. "In Madrid. He had me transferred there."

"Why?"

"Because of you."


	33. Getting the Information

Chapter 31, Not Enough Information

_[Pamela starts this chapter, but it finishes with Jason and Nicky.]_

-----

_Pamela Landy_

Pamela found her feet dragging as she walked toward her office. She should be in a better mood, now that her job was half-way done. She even had a freshly signed letter of commendation congratulating her on finding the mole behind Blackbriar, former Director Marshall. Her own boss. Another personal betrayal. Odd that Marshall was responsible for her involvement with Jason Bourne. He could have ended it right after her man had been assassinated in Berlin by refusing her access to Treadstone's files. It bothered her, Marshall's decision. Had it been ego on his part? That he believed that his role in Treadstone and Blackbriar was so hidden that no one would ever find it? Or maybe Marshall had counted on Jason to disappear so thoroughly that no one would have been able to figure out what had happened in Berlin and thus keep his secrets safe. Too bad for Marshall that Jason had found them first. Anyway, it was over. Marshall was in prison awaiting a trial.

The second part of her job was Jason Bourne. Her newest boss had echoed the words of the former director. "_I want it over, done. Bourne must cease to be a threat to this agency."_

Another ambiguous order that was free for her to interpret. Her personal agenda hadn't changed. She wanted a pardon for Jason, a chance to live a normal life. If such a thing was possible. Pamela pushed open the door to her office. Two four foot stacks of newspapers and print-outs sat waiting on her desk. Post-it notes in a rainbow of colors littered the stacks. _No, no, no_. Pamela felt her stomach drop. _It can't be that bad. It can't._ She switched on the intercom. "Stacy, please come in here."

Pamela had time to pour herself a cup of coffee before the new lead analyst popped her head through the doorway. "Ma'am?"

"What did I ask your team to get me?"

"Every article mentioning Treadstone, Blackbriar or Jason Bourne that's been published since Simon Ross broke the story in the _Courier_," Stacy said without hesitation.

"I was hoping you'd misunderstood me."

Stacy grinned at Pamela's dry tone. "Surprised? We weren't."

Pamela raised an eyebrow.

"A mysterious, dangerous ex-spy on the lam from the CIA with his lady spy girlfriend? A story that's been verified by the government? The reaction on the Internet alone has been huge. The pictures didn't hurt either."

Pamela decided to ignore the overly friendly tone. She liked Stacy. The girl had potential. She'd refused to crush her spririts. "Lady spy girlfriend? Where'd that come from?"

"All right, I sorta' made that part up." Another grin. "You should see the blogs. One guy in Spain claims he picked up Jason and Nicky hitch-hiking yesterday."

"Hitch-hiking?" Pamela smiled at the idea. _Not very likely. Bourne would steal a car_. Besides, her team had his location pegged as somewhere in southeastern Germany. She patted the closest stack. "What's the tone?"

"Tone?"

Pamela took a breath. She was so tired. Being tired made her grouchy._ Don't take it out on Stacy. Be patient with her_. "Are they talking about forming lynch mobs? Vigilante gangs?"

"Oh. More like welcoming parties. Lots of invitations for Jason and Nicky to drop by for a drink and a chat."

"Invite an unstable assassin into your home for a chat? The older I get, the less I understand people." Pamela shook her head. Keeping her tone casual, she asked, "What do you think about him? Bourne."

"Honestly?"

Pamela nodded.

"Well," Stacy hesitated. "Don't think I'd want to meet him face to face. He's kind of scary."

Pleased with the answer, Pamela changed the subject. She'd learned from her former assistant, Jennifer, and her infatuation with Jason Bourne. At least with his public image. Now she made sure that everyone working this case was made very aware of the uglier things that Jason Bourne had done for Treadstone.

"You have summaries of the articles?"

"Emailed them to you thirty minutes ago."

Pamela's desk phone rang. "Good job, Stacy. We'll pick this up later." She answered the phone, knowing two things. That the caller had been okayed before being transferred to her phone and that her every conversation was being recorded. "Pamela Landy."

"Ms. Landy, I'm calling for Doctor Atherson. You wanted to be notified when patient 1056 was stable enough to be interviewed."

"Thank you. My team will be there in twenty minutes."

_Excellent_. Paz was awake and well enough to talk. She had a few choice questions for him.

-----

_Jason Bourne_

"_Because of you."_

It was another revelation that Jason hadn't been prepared to hear. Another notch of guilt bit into his soul. He had to look away, give himself a moment to regroup. "What did Daniels want?"

"He had all of your files. Information I'd never seen before," Nicky said. "Stuff from Conklin that never made it into the official reports. Daniels wanted more. My personal experiences with you."

A punch of excitement hit Jason's gut. All the files? Did this mean that Nicky knew the details of his training? He wanted, _needed_ to know all that had been hidden in his mind, those unconscious, ingrained behaviors that dominated so much of his life and made it miserable. Yet, as curious as he wanted to know, he had to focus on what kept them safe. That meant understanding what was driving Blackbriar to keep pursuing Nicky. Back to his original line of questioning. "Did you tell him about us?"

Nicky shook her head, gave him a crooked smile. "I'd developed some serious trust issues with my fellow CIA operatives by then."

"He must have guessed."

Nicky startled at that. "Why?"

"Because the Blackbriar operatives in Brussels who were watching you were waiting for me."

Nicky blushed. "That's right. I forgot for a second. You said they planned to hold you hostage against me."

"It's all right." The flush suited her fair coloring. Then Jason wondered why he was paying attention to that. He didn't want to think about it and asked, "I don't get it. What did Daniels want?"

Nicky hesitated. He waited it out. The first quiver of anxiety touched him. A reminder from his internal clock that they'd be in one place for too long. It took a conscious effort not to check his watch. He didn't want to do anything to distract Nicky as she decided what to tell him. He didn't like that she was editing her story. Of course, he could press her, raise his voice, get physical. _Or I could just hold a gun to her head_. A stab of guilt. Another emotion to suppress.

"He never told me anything flat out. All I can do is guess." Nicky took a deep breath. "I think when he found out that Abbott had Conklin killed it changed things for him."

"Changed how?"

"He lost his believe in the system."

The wry note in her voice made him smile. Nicky smiled back at him. A moment of quiet understanding that felt genuine, felt good.

"Neal was drinking pretty heavily by then," Nicky went on. "He'd tell me things, then forget, or pretend to forget, that he had."

"What did he tell you?"

"About Treadstone. About how it was supposed to be." Another wry smile. "What it turned into. He talked about Blackbriar too. He said it was one of his biggest disappointments."

"Why?"

"Treadstone had a purpose." Nicky took a depth breath. She looked away from Jason, lifted her chin but at the same time she clenched the blanket covering her lap. "Proactive strikes to destroy our country's enemies. Brutally, yes. It worked, though. Of course, what they did to you, to the others. That was wrong. Still…"

Her voice trailed off. Nicky's body language was clear to him. She knew that he wouldn't like what she was saying, but she believed it. He decided not to bring up Abbott and Conklin's personal abuses. He waited.

"Daniels said Blackbriar went wrong. The targets showed little connection to any verified threats to America's security. He mentioned once that he thought someone was using Blackbriar to consolidate their power. He hinted that some of the targets resulted in certain acquisitions."

After waiting for her to continue, Jason asked, "Let me guess. Bonds, jewelry, gold, cash. Anything that was or could be made liquid and untraceable."

"Yes."

Nicky's answer was barely above a whisper. Her body language, her hesitations, the clues finally made sense. Jason realized with some amusement that Nicky felt guilty. As if she were personally responsible for the wrongs that Treadstone and Blackbriar had committed.

"I think that's why he started talking to Ross," Nicky said. "He wanted someone to know what was going on. Someone who could make it public."

"It was a stupid move."

"Nicky, there has to be something more. Something he told you. Gave you. Something that still is dangerous to Treadstone."

Nicky shook her head. "Nothing."

Jason tore pages from his notebook. Gave her a pen. "Start writing down everything you can remember about Daniels. Habits. Hobbies. What he ate. Where he went. Everyone he knew."

"Jason."

It was a no. "It's your life. And mine. We need to do this."

Reluctant, she took it. Then she met his eyes. The worried wrinkle in her forehead appeared. "You have one of your bad headaches."

Jason swallowed, nodded once.

Nicky jumped up from the bed and grabbed the med kit. She rifled through it and pulled out a bottle, shook a pill onto her hand. She held it out to him. "I know you haven't been sleeping. Here's eight solid hours."

It was an Ambience pill. The pressure to get out, get moving went into overdrive. It was all he could do was to keep himself from slapping the pill out of her hand and dragging her to the car. He took a careful breath._ I am in control. Not my damn training. I am not going to hurt Nicky. I'm not going to force her to do anything._ "No time. We need to get out of here."

Her shoulders slumped, then Nicky straightened. "You take the pill and I drive?"

His knee-jerk reaction was to refuse. It was giving up control. Made him vulnerable. It felt wrong, went against every bone-deep instinct. He glanced at Nicky's face. Suppressing the warnings that caused every muscle to tense, he ignored his training. Jason held out the keys.

He was rewarded by a brilliant smile. Nicky knew what this surrender meant.

Jason Bourne was trusting her with his life.


	34. Data Extraction

Chapter 32, Data Extraction

_[Hi! Sorry it's been so long since I've updated. Why the incredibly long delay? To be honest, I just got bored, because I'd said the things I wanted to about Jason and it seemed to be drudgery to finish. Now I have an ending and plan to finish this story, but I refuse to set a deadline for myself as I'm likely to blow it. This is a teaser entry to see if there is any interest in continuing, or to let me know it's been too long and it should just end here. Thanks for all the folks who've asked me to continue, it did make a difference! - Happy New Year!, Teal Moon]_

_Pamela Landy_

Pamela hated that her hands was shaking.

She spread them flat on the table, refusing to meet the eyes of the men sitting around the conference table.

She swallowed when she saw dried blood rimming the cuticles on her right hand.

Not hers. Not this time.

She mastered her rage at the death of a man she'd tried to protect by bringing him here to Langley, where he should have been safe.

Her orders had been ignored, and now Paz was dead.

Pamela sat up, sliding her hands back to her lap.

Leaving a memory chip on the table.

"I took some special precautions. A separate, pervasive surveillance focused on our Blackbriar guests, all run by an outside team. Anyone interested in what we found?"

The men surrounding her went silent.

She smiled, letting anger bleed through to give it a feral edge.

Pamela might have been out of the field for a decade, but her instincts hadn't faded. For what she sensed now was fear.

And it was good.

_Jason Bourne_

He'd been careful with Nicky. As strong as she tried to be, her history betrayed an emotional fragility that meant he couldn't push her the way he wanted to. He didn't _want_ to hurt her. Yet he could feel them, as if they were standing just outside the edge of his vision. The others who wanted them dead and forgotten. The CIA, Blackbriar, the police, all closing in. No matter how clever he was, no matter which way he jumped, combined, they had the resources to find him in Europe. Every instinct in him screamed to dump Nicky here in this fleabag hotel and get away, leave the puzzle unsolved behind him. Let Nicky be consumed.

A final sacrifice.

No. He refused to let that happen. Now that they was out of time. He put gentleness aside. He would solve this. He would find away out. Remorseless, Jason ignored the way she sagged against the chair, the tears seeping from her eyes, the gray of exhaustion in her face. He'd been making her talk for two days now and hadn't gotten anything useful. That had to change. He raised his tone, brught his shoulders high, hands clenched. He leanded over her, his voice a whip as he snapped at her . He wanted her mad, wanted her to speak without considering every word. "Again, Nicky. Tell me everything about Daniels. You're leaving something out!"

"I've told you everything!" Nicky ran her hands through her hair, pulling it off of her face. "David, plea-"

He cut her off. "His hobbies? Tell me about those."

"Again? Opera, reading French literature, photography." Her voice went sharp with sarcasm. Did I mention his porno website?"

David's eyes narrowed. "You didn't mention that before."

"Because it's sick!"

"Show me the website."

She visibly bit off a protest, turning to the laptop they'd picked up in the last city. She fumbled with the keys.

It was a struggle not to yell at her to hurry.

"Here." She pushed the laptop at him. Pictures of semi-nude women smiled up at him.

"Daniels told you about this when?"

"He started talking about it a few weeks ago. And kept talking about it. He even showed it to me even though I told him I didn't want to see it."

"Where?" David asked.

"Where what?"

David took a deep breath. He had to remind himself that he hadn't let her sleep. He couldn't expect her to be at her best. With deliberate patience, he said, "Where were you when Daniels showed you this website? Was it on his work laptop?"

"No. We were at an Internet café and used one of their computers," Nicky said. With dawning understanding, she added, "He kept saying that each picture _told a story_."

"Pixel encryption." David nodded. If he was right, then Daniels's secrets hadn't died with him.

Maybe they had a chance after all.

A chance to end it, and live.


	35. Next Steps Unknown

Chapter 33, Next Steps Unknown

_[Here's the next installment. Thanks so much for all of your reviews! Teal Moon]_

_Pamela Landy_

"I know it's not enough." Pamela looked her former boss in the eye. "All I can say is that I'm sorry."

Martin, her old boss, newly released from confinement, shrugged. "The evidence seemed compelling, even to me, and I knew it was all lies. What changed your mind?"

How do you explain your gut instinct? Decades of practice in working in deceit, and in having deceit worked on her had given her a certain perspective. Thoughtful, she returned his shrug. "A flood of data was shoved my way. Overwhelming the analysts, even when I borrowed more. Then, through all of this murk, the researchers find a clear thread tying you to Blackbriar? Once I had time to think instead of react, we all knew something wasn't right. Besides, you were the one who gave me the initial access to the Treadstone files. If you'd really been involved, you've never have let anyone get that close."

"Glad you recognized that." Martin leaned back in his chair.

"Do you want to talk to Kenally?"

Martin frowned.

The name clearly meant nothing to him. Pamela added, "The auxiliary surveillance I had installed caught him freeing the Blackbriar agent from Germany. He helped him kill Paz, then-"

"Stop there, please." Martin held up a hand. "I've never been good at working backwards. Let's start at the beginning. Go back to Treadstone. Tell me everything."

Pamela didn't allow herself to react visibly. She wanted to scream at him that they didn't have time. Instead, she gestured to her assistant. "You heard him. Start with the earliest summaries."

Pamela's office darkened. An overhead projector powered on and a screen lowered. "Conklin was running a black on black covert kill squad…."

_Jason Bourne_

"Nothing?" Jason flipped through the computer screens again. "Can we try another cipher?"

"I've done every possible combination," Nicky said. "There's nothing encoded expect the jpeg formatted pixel mapping and a standard set of metadata. It's just date and time of creation."

"Are the dates meaningful?"

"No." Nicky's voice was flat.

"We're missing something." He'd been certain that he'd found the answer. The last piece of the puzzle. Or they were missing something. Probably something simple. _Wait_. From Daniels? Nothing he'd ever done had been simple. Encoding pixels and leaving the encoded pictures accessible by anyone? No. It didn't make sense. Daniels was smart enough to know that Langley would eventually find out about his website and he'd have been fired without compunction. It would be to embarrassing for the CIA to have one of their station chiefs to be caught publishing porn. Daniels hadn't even tried to hide it. The man had used his own name. Like he wanted to be caught. It didn't add up.

"You told me that Daniels bragged about his porn web site," Jason asked. "Were you the only one he told about it?"

Nicky blinked, She fumbled for her coffee cup, took a sip. She must have caught something of the tension throbbing throughout his body as he waited, impatient for her answer. "Sorry. Mouth's dry."

He nodded. Jason knew what was making him antsy. All that Treadstone training, mucking around in his subconscious, warning him that Nicky was a liability, that she was slowing him down, that he needed to end her and move on. He was fighting it, but she was making it hard.

"Daniels had permission."

Her answer was short, quick, eager to give him what he wanted. The pitch of her voice was raised. The pulse jumped in her throat. Nicky had known many Treadstone agents, knew he was on edge. Knew that she was in danger. Jason hated it. No matter what they'd been through together, she had that uncertainty, that inability to fully trust him. She knew too much of what had been done to him. No matter what she told herself, her body told him a different story.

Marie's ignorance had helped kept her safe. She didn't respond to him that way Nicky did. Didn't trigger his darker instincts.

Unable to turn his back on Nicky while she was agitated, he retreated across the room to give her some breathing space. Mind racing, he nodded at what she'd told him. "The website was to act as a lure for recruiting local spies?"

"Yes. Daniels pitched it that way. He had up a prototype in a lab at Langley, where the shrinks could pick the best pictures to use."

A shred of hope glimmered.

"We need access to those pictures."

Nicky didn't try to hide her bewilderment, but she didn't ask any questions. She shook her head. "I can't hack in. They've closed all the back doors I had."

"Then we need a friend in the right place."

"Landy?" Nicky's tone was incredulous.

Jason nodded.

"We'd never be able to get anywhere near her." Nicky flexed her hands in frustration. "Forget about calls, email, texts…"

"It'll be okay." Jason was able to breathe now, the tension fleeing now that he had a clear objective. "I have a plan."


End file.
